Arcana
by E. Gray
Summary: The greatest love stories and the most terrible of wars can both begin with something as simple as a kiss...not that either of them knew it. Yet. Orphen/Cleo, rated M for language, mature/graphic content and violence.
1. The Fool

**Chapter One: The Fool**

With the way she lived, a little sleeplessness was to be expected.

Honestly, she'd grown used to it; laying awake at night for whatever reason. Be it worrying about a coming battle or an injured comrade, lamenting over their often poor choice of campsite, or simply wondering just what the hell she thought she was really accomplishing by running further and further from the perfect high society future her mother had so painstakingly mapped out for her, when she knew damn well it would all be waiting for her…whenever they returned to Totokanta again.

Yes, there were any amount of explanations as to why a little insomnia was nothing to get worked up about.

Lately, though, it wasn't any of those things keeping her awake. She couldn't sleep because she was a fool, a hopeless idiot that, every time she closed her eyes, started to remember the feel of his hands slipping over her skin; the wet heat of his mouth on hers; the hammering of his heartbeat under her hand. No no, when those memories screamed to the surface of her silent mind at night, there would be no sleep to quiet them.

It had been an accident. Sort of.

A complete mistake had brought her to his bed, but whether it had all been intended or not didn't change what had happened because of that error, nor that in the weeks since it had happened, he had said nothing to raise the subject or even acknowledge the occurrence of what was, she felt, an earth-shaking event. At first she thought it was just an act, after all, for the past two years their relentless and vicious bickering had been what had defined their relationship, and this version of their usual tension seemed no different at first. But as the weeks wore on, she grew less and less sure of the reasons that he couldn't quite seem to look her in the eye; and if he was ashamed of himself he hid it well enough that Cleo felt sure he just wanted her to forget it ever happened. And that was something she would never be able to do, even if her life depended on it.

Ironically, it had been her sleeplessness that started it all. It had happened on a sultry night at the end of the summer, the humidity pressing down on her skin as heavy and clinging as being smothered in velvet drape. The bedclothes were damp against her sweaty skin, she remembered that, and she'd kicked them off only to find herself unsettled. If was always difficult to sleep without something covering her, but it was far too hot for any other arrangement and a wicked thirst was demanding her attention with too much annoying zeal to ignore. On top of that, her window had been stuck shut with a hundred layers of old paint, and the air in the small room was stagnant and hot and she felt like she'd breathed it all in and out about twenty times over.

Eventually the restlessness had gotten the better of her, and she'd tromped out of her room in frustration, leaving Reiki sleeping in a dark furry ball at the foot of the bed. She wandered through the tiny inn toward the vestibule, guided only by the spilled milk roads of moonlight that bled in through a few open shutters, utterly unconcerned about being seen in her nightdress. If any pervert dared to venture even near her, she intended concretely she would beat them to a bloody mass of entrails before she'd put on a robe in this bloody heat just for some would-be propriety.

Having been born and raised in Totokanta, Cleo was accustomed to the creature comforts with which she'd been brought up. The city was regarded widely as the largest metropolis in the southwest of Kiesalhima continent, and being from a family of some considerable wealth and integrity, she hadn't gone without any of those luxuries for even a day of her life prior to her sudden and allegedly unexplained departure with the vagabond sorcerer and his apprentice all those months ago. She'd come a long way since then. Now that she'd travelled through vast rural areas of the continent from Masmaturia to Laindast, she never took lodging for granted. She'd slept on enough rocky ground and cold, wind-swept plains to be grateful for nights she could lay in a soft bed, out of the wind and rain, away from any variety of insects; but that night she was restless, unable to appreciate her bed or her moments of private silence. It had been a long, hectic day; the inertia of absolute exhaustion pulled at her limbs and eyelids, begging her to sleep, yet the heat seemed determined to interrupt her rest.

So, with her glass of clean water from the kitchen tap, she'd sat down at a small, unvarnished table in the atrium and laid her head on the pillow of her crossed arms. Absently watching the bony face of the full moon float outside the slots in the shutters, she'd let her mind wander down the same path it usually did when it was allowed.

Upon her first return to her hometown after their long crusade to restore the woman called Azalea, it wasn't much of a shock to her that she _missed_ that impetuous bastard. Orphen. She wasn't even surprised at the realization of just how much she missed him and every frustrating thing that went along with him: all his caustic remarks, his obstinacy, even his occasional cruelty. In those long weeks without him, she would stare blankly into space, lost in her inane wishing, excruciatingly aware of his absence and unable to concentrate on anything else. Even if their similarities incited more arguments than anything else, she'd known within the first few weeks of knowing him that she was in love. Inexplicably, madly, _stupidly_ in love. More in love than any girl should be, and with someone no girl should even bother being in love with at all.

Oh, she'd known it from the start. She simply hadn't _known_ she'd known. It had taken her months to admit it to herself, which was part of the problem. Knowing she loved him…it only made her feel like an idiot. Like being in love with a beautiful forest or sunset; something far away that would never love you back, and you could barely expect it to.

But regardless of that, it was still hard to believe that someone so adept at the art of sorcery, one who could control such impressive power, could be so emotionally…_bankrupt_. When she was a little girl, her sister Mariabella had sat with her at the lake for hours, telling her stories about the black sorcerers from the Tower of Kiba, all the way in Taflem at the northwestern outskirts of Kiesalhima Continent: a decidedly foreign sounding city with its whitewashed chalkstones and ornate cobbled roads. Apparently it had been destroyed more than twice in the wars over the last couple hundred years only to be rebuilt grander each time. And of its inhabitants, she'd imagined mysterious, exotic champions in long robes gathering magic on their fingertips, their heads filled with runes and incantations and musical sounding spells.

Orphen, well. Suffice it to say he certainly fit that one dimensional picture rather well, but was basically in every way a negative of the noble, heroic traits she'd pictured would go along with it. He was brash, selfish, short tempered, vulgar, and sometimes she suspected he might be more than a little bit crazy…and yet he struck such a resonating chord of utter fascination within her that it echoed in her like a belltower. Nothing and no one had ever affected her in such a manner, and to such extremes. When he gathered light between his palms, she nearly forgot her own name. Just one bare glance from him was all it took, just the tone of his razorblade voice when he spoke an invocation could make her mouth run dry; just one unexpected smile could derail an entire train of thought.

In the atrium of the inn that hot August night, she'd simply sat at the small table with her half empty glass of water, resting her head in the cradle of her arms, and dozed in a stripe of moonlight for how long it was unclear, dipping in and out of dream filled sleep. Upon regaining enough consciousness to stand, she abandoned the glass and headed back to her room in the wooden labyrinth of the moon striped corridor, the dreamlike whorl of her mind guiding her on a leash of sleep. She quietly closed the her door behind her, crossed the room, still one foot in a dream, and slipped back into the vaguely cool bed sheets, only to be roused completely a moment later by another movement between the folds of the bedclothes.

Jerking upright, Cleo's head whipped to the source of the movement, regarding the sleeping sorcerer with initial horror. At a second, more alert glance, it was glaringly obvious it wasn't her own room. To begin with, the window was wide open, the pristine full moonlight pouring to the wooden floor like luminous snow. _Her_ window was painted shut and the room was too stuffy and hot to even think in, much less sleep. The moonlight settled over the bed, into the folds of the white sheets and over Orphen's bare back.

Of _all_ the people.

She'd been known to sleepwalk before. To end up in strange places. But this was a complete joke.

Terror and trepidation created an odd cocktail that sent her heart hammering in her chest, some rudimentary reflex threw up both hands to cover her heart, as if she might muffle the thunder that seemed to reverberate on the walls around her, threatening (in her terrified mind) to wake him. What would he _do_ if he woke to find her here? All she had to do was simply slip away as quietly as she had come. All she had to do was act quickly.

He stirred, rolling onto his back and shifting an arm. Cleo held her breath, her heart in her throat ready to burst out. She was frozen, too afraid a move out of the bed would alert him, watching him until he grew still.

His face as he slept, she'd never seen it like that before. He looked so relaxed, so calm. It was rare that he removed the trailing red bandana he usually wore, but now it was absent, his dark hair falling over his bare forehead. Silent, she exhaled slowly, examining his features on his sleeping, moonwashed visage with more interest than she would have liked to admit. The long, dark eyelashes, the slightly parted lips, the sloped curve of his jaw.

God, why? _Why_ did he have to be_…_? Sometimes it only angered her. Things would just be so much easier if he didn't look like that. She had a wicked compulsion to reach up and run her fingers through his hair, just to see what it felt like. Yet she held still, examining him as though she might burn the image into her memory and never forget it.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he spoke suddenly, his eyes remaining closed until she jerked back in shock. She held her breath again, another odd reflex that her body thought might save her from the next few minutes of humiliation. She considered bolting, but figured it wouldn't do much good.

Orphen had tiredly opened his eyes, staring straight through her for a moment before focusing on her face. He didn't sit up. His gaze just burned up at her in the moonlight, and once again, like a moron, Cleo forgot to breathe. Things would just be so much easier between them if…if he didn't look like that. Her throat constricted embarrassingly, and she wiped her damp palms on the sides of her slip, considering him with wide eyes. His fairly calm reaction hadn't been at all what she'd expected.

He prompted her again. "Well?"

Yes, not the reaction she'd dreaded, but she still had no answer. Instinctually, a lie found a way to her lips, and she was relieved just to hear her own voice. Sounding frightened and urgent wasn't a stretch. "I heard crunching noises outside my window, like someone was trying to get in, and…I don't know…I was too scared to go back to sleep…."

Sure, that didn't sound contrived at all. He didn't appear too convinced either, but still made no move to get up. He blinked heavily, his eyes hooded and unfocused. When his voice came, it was thick and gentle. Half asleep. Maybe half drunk. Had he been drinking? The words that usually bit into her came to her ears like feathers. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice (or care to comment on) the peculiarity of her getting into his bed to tell him she'd heard bandits outside her shutters. Why she'd even bothered with lying about the reason, she had no real idea. This was all _so_ stupid.

"Really. You're sure about that?"

She nodded dumbly, her hands fisted up against her chest, sitting upright with her bare legs tucked up beside her. She watched his gaze flick over her, seeming to linger on one of the little red ribbons holding her gauzy nightdress up on her shoulders. The longer he silently regarded her, the hotter she felt a blush crawling up her skin, invisible in the moonlight. Finally his eyes closed again. "Well…what did you want _me_ to do?"

"Ah…I don't know. I was just _scared_…so, I…I came in here…"

His eyes opened again, staring through her, his eyes gone soft-focus with exhaustion, before they closed again. "…go back to sleep."

"…hu-here?" she squeaked, her voice going shrill even as she tried to keep it at least in a stage-whisper. The pounding heart was back.

All he did was sigh heavily, a weak furrow appearing on his brow for a moment, the corner of his mouth tightening in annoyance. But he didn't reply.

Cleo started at him for another minute or so, frozen in place, appraising the meaning of his apathy and silence. He _had_ heard her, hadn't he? Clearly he wasn't awake enough to be reasonable. She couldn't decide what to make of this reaction. They had all been asleep for hours now; she recalled the clock in the hallway reading close to four. He was likely only half-conscious throughout their conversation; they were all exhausted, it wouldn't be surprising if that was the case. After all, she'd been in such a state she'd found herself in the wrong bed.

This should have been her cue to quietly get up and correct that error; return to her own bed and leave him to, hopefully, completely forget they had spoken in the first place.

She lay down slowly, pulling the sheet over her legs, never taking her eyes off him; as though he might spring and belittle her for actually believing he'd just invited her to share his bed. She watched him sleep quietly over the soft white hills of the pillows, gradually gaining the confidence to pretend to herself that she belonged there in bed with him. It gave her a delightful tingle, and it was just a harmless game, after all. Orphen just slept quietly, and Cleo was now wide awake and having the time of her life. She planned on staring at him like this for as long as she could keep her eyes open.

Long minutes passed, maybe twenty, and she ventured a few inches closer, her heart calming and confidence rising for each inch until she could feel the heat of his skin. She curled her right arm under her head, and, softly enough she felt sure it wouldn't wake him, she lifted her hand to his shock of black hair and combed just the tips of her fingers through it, sliding it away from his forehead. She had imagined it rough, but it was smooth and slick, slipping between her fingers, and she smiled involuntarily. By the time she realized his breathing had changed, his hand had already closed bruisingly tight around her wrist.

"Can't sleep?" if his voice had sounded different before, it really sounded different now. She felt her chest stiffen; as though her heart was squeezing to a standstill. Frozen like a frightened animal, she was trapped in his grip, leaning slightly over him. His rust colored eyes stared up at her, the shadow of her arm falling in a dark stripe over his face. She could not even blink, and the sudden quiver that shook her body was beyond her control as he began to sit up, his right hand still enslaving her wrist and his left suddenly catching her other arm. He pushed her onto her back, leaning over her with all the menace he seemed able to muster, pulling her limb forward to ensure she could not look away.

He appeared to be awaiting a reply, his eyes still intent on hers, his features shadowed in the sallow glow of the full moon. Cleo's mouth went dry, the entire event surreal enough to be a dream and a nightmare all at once, and her heart strained in her chest, hammering painfully and thundering in her ears. She'd never felt the power he held over her with his rough charm more than in that moment, held in the thrall of his burning eyes so that if she'd even had an answer, she never would have been able to speak. She was sure he could feel her shaking, feel how quickly her breath flooded in and out of her, giving her away. Yet he just held her there, the moment frozen still. Actually, she wasn't positive she wouldn't faint. She'd brought this upon herself, she knew that.

Sometimes she just didn't know why she did the things she did.

"Nothing to say?" he prompted, his voice hoarse but sharp and cold as usual, for once catching her completely speechless and unable to turn it all around and throw it back in his face. Usually her defense mechanisms would have kicked in by now: usually she would have snapped back or slugged him. Under the circumstances, however, being caught in such a situation had left her wit paralyzed.

"I'm…" her voice shuttered out like a draft, tumbling clumsily over her quivering lips in a ghost of a whisper. Her spineless shaking was embarrassing her, the cowardly thunder of her heart. It was almost as though his method was to punish her by simply allowing her to embarrass herself into submission, staring her down with that familiar spark of anger in his eyes; his hands gripping her just tightly enough to frighten her. The blush that had blossomed on her cheeks at first had spread over all her exposed flesh, yet his hands on her felt hot. She might have been imagining that part. She licked her lips, trying to control her anxiety enough to speak, but all that came out was a stammer.

"O-Orphen…I….just…" Christ! What was she supposed to _say_?

Though obviously furious, he didn't seem interested in her attempt to explain after all. He pushed forward without warning; his mouth smothered her stammering and caught her lips awkwardly half open. His hand eased up, his fingers crawling up the nape of her neck and into her hair. After a quick gasp of surprise, Cleo's bones abruptly lost all their solidity, and her muscles went flaccid.

Oh. This wasn't real.

Cleo had kissed a few boys in her eighteen years: at the Christmas Formal at the academy, under the staircase between classes, in the dark courtyard after hours. Some were tentative kisses, some too hard with scraping teeth, all of them unpracticed and clumsy. This was nothing like that. Kissing Orphen, after two years of nothing but outright verbal warfare and silent wishing, felt like her blood was igniting, like her veins were lines of gunpowder. He sucked the breath from her and she lay still and unresponsive as a paralytic. But the _way_ he kissed her, it was strange. Angry, forceful, but slowly; with an almost peculiar intensity that made her shake like a dry leaf in the wind. After a moment that felt like a year, she returned the action as best she felt able, and he finally freed her captive wrist, her hand cold and bloodless above it, and abruptly he was gripping her leg, tugging on it, slipping under the hem of her nightdress with little apology.

Somehow, it was difficult not to focus on that undeniably bizarre, vicious anger in that kiss. She didn't understand, was even a little frightened, but regardless she didn't push him away. Maybe he'd counted on that. Instead, she whimpered in response, winding her arms around him as she'd only ever dreamed of doing.

From the moment she'd seen him atop the ruined tower in the lake, far more than a year ago now, there had been rarely any other dream that came at night than ones of Orphen. In her rather detailed fantasies, they had made love many times and in various imagined places. The most frequent of these occurrences took place in that same lake near her home, where she would be swimming in the starlight. He would be watching her this time, standing atop the tower that jut out from the center of the water, his hair and cloak whipping in the wind, his dark eyes smoldering, never leaving her body. She wouldn't see him at first, but could feel him watching her. She would feel fear, a delightful erotic trepidation of the black fantasy that burning gaze promised. Sometimes he would use magic to seduce her, using spells she had just conjured up in her imagination, but often he needed no assistance in persuading her. Cleo had always known how arrogant she would make Orphen if he was aware of the sorts of dreams she had about him.

Or maybe he would just be disgusted.

Was this really happening? His mouth slid from hers to her jaw, dotting it with molten, open mouthed kisses that lingered burning on her skin even as he moved further down her neck, dropping further down to her collarbone until the lace of her neckline impeded his progress. It all felt so real. God, how she hoped this was all real this time. She snaked her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair as he returned to fit his mouth against hers once more. He took a sharp, deep breath as she returned his kiss without hesitation, hooking a leg around his to feel the press of his body more intimately against hers.

Oh, she knew this wasn't decent. Not something a well-brought-up, respectable girl would ever do. Her mother would be appalled, her sister _shocked_ at this vulgar behavior; but she'd never been any good at adhering to the things everyone seemed to think a lady should be, and even less what a lady of the noble Everlasting family should be.

The hem of her slip was edging ever higher, the fabric gathering over her thighs and hips, his hand sliding up with it under the dress, up to her bare waist and ribs. She found the waistband of his pants, slipping her fingers in and tugging gently. From the back of his throat, there was a soft rumble in response to that action, and he kissed her harder; more insistently. Somewhere in a part of her brain that could still reason, Cleo wondered how far he would take this before he spoke again, and if he didn't say another word until he stripped the nightdress over her head, until he pushing her legs apart…did she care?

_Did she_? Cleo felt a sudden spike of apprehension.

How far would she allow this to progress before her nerves forced her to speak up?

He rarely spoke in her dreams; he would simply smile that wicked, charming smile and she would fall flat on her back for him. Maybe her brain just couldn't think the way he did; couldn't conjure up any convincing lines she could believe would actually come out of his mouth. Not like he needed to bother with seducing her anyway. And even in waking life, he had to know well enough he could've had her by now if he'd really wanted.

He just _hadn't_ wanted.

His fingers continued their journey, now running along the curve of her back, and Cleo had the bold urge to speak. Like a lovesick teenager, she wanted to tell him that she loved him; that she wanted to belong to him, no matter where he went or what he did. Instead, she did none of these, and slid a hand down from where she clutched his sinewy shoulder to press her palm against his chest. His heartbeat was strong against her hand, and it was going much faster than she would have expected it to be if she'd truly had the capacity to think about things like heartbeats.

While she was sifting through a million thoughts based on the feel of his anatomy, his mouth lifted from hers suddenly, hovering there a millimeter away for a long moment. Suddenly hesitant.

Cleo had to beat away the notion that perhaps he didn't want her after all...despite how she'd slowly felt his initial anger drain away; despite the tentative almost-tenderness she felt replace it.

But maybe she was just imagining that. Among other things, she'd been known to let her imagination get the best of her.

"Cleo…" to her surprise, he suddenly spoke, his whisper brushing his lips against hers once more, making her almost swoon. She loved how her name sounded spoken like that, a rough whisper that sent a hot shiver across her skin, despite the distinct regret she could hear in it.

She waited for him to continue with held breath, but she never heard the end of that sentence.

Somewhere beyond the inn walls there erupted an echoing scream. There followed a cacophony of heavy objects falling, glass breaking, splintering wood, the clatter of footsteps. Under her hands, Cleo felt all the muscles in Orphen's back contract as he brought his head up quickly towards the open window in the direction of the surprising clamor. He looked down at her for a moment—an almost startled expression passing over his dark features, the lightning bolt clarity of a man waking from a trance. His hands snapped away from her body, and he threw back the sheet, up so fast it was dizzying, snatching his shirt up from the back of a wooden chair as he stormed from the room without even a glance backward.

She heard a violently muttered curse as he was closing the door, leaving her sprawled in his bed, still panting, still _trembling_; legs splayed bare in the moonlight.


	2. The Magician

**Chapter Two: The Magician**

She remembered laying there in Orphen's bed, still able to taste him on her lips, the ghost of his touch clinging to her skin. She'd waited for him to return, reeling and hesitant, paralyzed by confusion.

There were a hundred questions echoing around her head. Should she return to her room? _What_ had just happened? Had that scream awoken anyone, and would they see her leaving his room so late at night in her slip? What was happening outside? And why…_why_ had he left like that, without even a word?

She certainly didn't mind what any innkeepers thought might be between Orphen and herself, even though up until ten minutes earlier there had been nothing between them other than a bond of trust, loyalty, irritation and a thousand bickering arguments. In fact, Cleo had thought it would be all the better to let them think what they wanted. She thought better of it, however, as Orphen would not like being asked about that, particularly since she didn't even know what to say about it herself, much less what he might say. She was afraid to even consider what cruel thing he might come out with to blow it all off. Her stomach went cold at just that thought of it.

Orphen had a gift when it came to upsetting her, and it was no secret that the two of them didn't get along; they fought like a cat and dog more often than they didn't. Majic, his apprentice with whom she'd attended middle school, had commented once that it was because they were so similar. Well, Cleo wasn't so sure about that…but she knew why _she_ fought with him. Because he was bloody _infuriating_. She was good with a sword, after all she had been the shining star of her fencing class at the Meverlenst Girls Academy, and with the addition of Reiki, she was a valuable addition to the team and she knew it. And she knew _he_ knew it too. But in a fight, he was unbelievably fast; mobile and deadly, and if she wasn't careful, she would only end up both in the way and in danger because of it. Often he would have to save her from himself, and not only did it piss him off to have to save his own teammate, but more than that, that _he_ was the one that was posing that danger. In her eyes, protesting his complaints and countering his insults was the only way to keep her dignity.

Well, and sometimes it almost seemed like he just enjoyed getting her all riled up. Which riled her up even more. It didn't help that he remained utterly oblivious about…well. How she felt. About him. Apparently. He could be so thick sometimes.

But aside from their bickering, there weren't any harsh emotions between them. Not really. And in fact, lying in bed after his sudden departure that night, she'd had just a glimpse of a realization. All his insults, all the shots he took at her…whether they were in good humor or not, she had certainly believed he meant them, on a certain level. Now she'd had a taste of something different, _entirely_ different. She wasn't sure what to feel, what to think. It had all happened so fast, and the unexpected, white hot sparks that had flown between them for the few minutes they were together that night was a mysterious, marvelous alchemy that she was impatient to feel again.

But after waiting long enough for the moonlight to have faded and be replaced with a pink hint of dawn glowing through the open window, she left the bed and slunk back to her room unnoticed. She'd been too apprehensive since to even touch the topic with him.

Not that she'd really had the chance anyway.

But it wasn't a question of whether he remembered or not. He was no sleepwalker, he had addressed her during the act, and since then there had been a tangible tension on which even Majic, who was often entirely naïve, had commented. Just another spat, she would tell him, what else was new? A few days afterward they had met the hopelessly confused Lycoris, and the entire time she had travelled with them, they'd avoided each other mostly, the girl's presence a distraction that was both welcome and frustrating. Cleo had occupied herself with taking care of the girl, but even then, sometimes she would catch his eyes, and she could feel it. What they had done together inevitably led to thoughts of what they had very possibly _would have _done, and those mental images still hung in the air between them. And now, it had nearly been two months since it had happened, and although life had continued on as usual as it ever did, their spats had been decidedly less. As soon as he'd get her worked up, he would wave it off. She could imagine his reasons for wanting to avoid getting her started.

Two months of this. Two months was too long to wait. The more time passed, the more she felt the rift expanding between them, and if she'd ever suspected he avoided touching her before, boy did he now. Now the sweltering summer had begun to fade, and cold wind whistled through their camp at night and at the windows of lodges when they were fortunate enough to find one. Nights when they'd stayed at Inns, she had intentionally crawled into his bed a couple times since, only to have him never touch her during the night, then act shocked to wake in the morning with his arms tangled around her. She would act equally enraged, quickly siccing Reiki on the bastard before he could reprimand her for her new, extremely inconvenient sleepwalking habit; before he could see the inevitable tears.

Two months. She began to believe it was just a fluke event. A matter of the right place and the right time. She'd tried putting herself in the right place, thinking she could make it the right time, if he'd only acknowledge her. Each time she'd crawled into bed with him, she'd known he was awake. Lying awake in bed, waiting for her to come, only to never lay a hand on her.

Why?

_Why_ hadn't he touched her since, when she'd practically thrown herself at him? When he'd been given every opportunity to do it away from anyone's eyes, exactly as before? Why had he said absolutely nothing to her? Was he repulsed by what he'd done? By her? Her head fairly pulsed with questions for which she had no rational answers. She began to think perhaps he had been drinking that night, despite that she'd detected no scent, or _taste_, of it on him. Now another battle was past, another dilemma resolved, and they found themselves back in Totokanta of all places, on their way to Taflem by way of the Fenril Woods northern route.

Being in Totokanta obligated her to stay at her own home, thrust headfirst into the inevitable confrontation with her mother with no place and no one to hide behind. Orphen presumably had gotten himself a room at the Lin's Lodge where he'd stayed not so long ago, waiting for the beast called Bloody August to come for the cursed sword that waited in Everlasting Manor.

Upon arrival home, Cleo had completed restocking her supplies first, repacking an appropriate supply of travelling clothes, taking a long, hot bath…anything to keep her mind busy. Since Lycoris had gone, she'd had nothing to distract her, and just like always, Orphen was always waiting for her when she closed her eyes. But instead of her previous fantasies, now she only remembered that night in his bed, his mouth hot and wet on hers, his hands sliding up under her dress, the press of his body.

But more than anything, being home reminded her of how much she hated being home. Every turn around the dark hallways reminded her of how empty the house was now that her father was gone. And how irate and ashamed he would have been, knowing how she spent her time these days. And the incontrovertible fact that no matter how far she travelled away, she couldn't run from who she was and what was expected of her.

More than once she'd been berated for her behavior. About how she would bring humiliation to the Everlasting name; and he wouldn't allow her to besmirch her entire family simply because she refused to behave appropriately. And tonight, she heard the same from her mother. Except Tistiny Everlasting, as always, broke down into sobs while saying the same things, and reminded her of how her father was likely rolling over in his grave in protest of her gallivanting across the countryside like a vagabond whore with two men, when she should be in finishing school, finding herself a husband from a good family. She had had enough, screamed a few choice words, gotten herself more upset, and charged out of Everlasting Manor blindly into the cool October night.

After a few hours of wandering around the dark town, she found herself at the edge of the lake ruins on the outskirts of Totokanta where she'd first encountered Orphen, the one which often played as setting for her decidedly indecent dreams. Why did she always run here when she needed to escape? This had been her place, for as long as she could remember. She'd come as a child to pull off her shoes and wade around in the shallows, looking down in the moonlight for striped fish swimming around her ankles and pearly clamshells in the mud. As a young woman, in the summer night she would swim in the crystal clear water, floating on her back, watching the stars emerge from twilight mauve. Her father particularly hated that. Even in her dreams she retreated to the lake ruins. And tonight, weeks from her nineteenth birthday, she sat in the dying grass, staring at the mirror calm water, reflecting a sky utterly gray and devoid of the romantic starlight from her dreams. The moon was invisible, lighting up a bright spot in the cloudcover and reflecting almost violet in the water. The wind was picking up, and Cleo sat in the yellowing grass, hugging her arms and drawing her knees up against the cold.

There was a muffled rumble overhead, a flicker of lightning flashing on the lake and she stared glumly across her folded arms. It was times like these she wondered what she thought she was doing. She'd finished her time at the academy, and like her mother had sobbed at her, should have been looking to secure heirs for their line by finding a husband from another blue blood family. Husband. Cleo almost snorted out loud at that thought. Well, she was certainly looking in all the wrong places for that. Her mother had certainly never verbally allowed her to go off with Orphen and Majic, but hadn't done much to stop her. Indeed, Cleo had spent a good part of her life doing exactly the opposite of what everyone told her she had to. She was no good at being an Everlasting, not really. She'd grown up with everything she could ever want, as Orphen had reminded her on more than one occasion, to the point she simply expected everything to be handed to her. Well, she figured that was true. But she'd thrown that all aside to follow him. She thought that proved she was more than just the spoiled rotten product of an affluent upbringing. And she'd stuck it out long enough that he'd eventually stopped railing her for just bring a tourist, that it was just the novelty of it all that got her going. Knowing she could return to her gilded cage whenever things got too hard, according to the sorcerer, that was what made it so she would never know what it was like to have to work for anything.

And she'd tried so hard to prove she could. He didn't understand her any more than she could really understand him.

She could be living her usual life of luxury, and instead, she was travelling the continent with a charlatan, bad tempered sorcerer who just happened to be brilliant…his naïve apprentice, and whoever needed their assistance along the way; for the right price, of course. She might be throwing away her entire future, wasting her time with someone like him. In her heart, now that the tragedy of Azalea's accident had been about as resolved as it really could be, she felt Orphen would return to the Tower eventually and rejoin Hartia and Leticia. He had left them scholastically in the dust by the time he'd left the Tower years ago to begin with, but the idea of Orphen going against his ribald nature and becoming a lecturer brought her a both a chuckle and an empty feeling in her gut. If he returned to the Tower, she would have to continue on the path decided for her without him to save her from it…and that meant more schooling or marriage, probably an arranged one since she, at this point, couldn't imagine choosing a husband…and then children. Then an expanse of lost day trapped behind gilded windowpanes and needlepoint until she was just like her mother: middle-aged, commanding and bitter. The prospect of any of it made her stomach twist.

Suddenly a bright vein of lavender lightening appeared soundlessly overhead, its reflection arcing across the surface of the dark, wind rippled water a moment before the devastating whip crack of its accompanying thunder shook the windswept silence to the ground. Even before the echo had escaped her ears, a quieter babble took its place, the rain plucking up at the water's surface, the heavy drops splashing on her shoulders and rounded back, wetting her hair.

Perfect.

Cleo hugged herself tighter, the sudden rain unexpectedly cold and soaking through her silk blouse already. She'd planned on staying here until she had pulled her mind back together, and had no intention of returning home to her mother's ultimatums and tears. Not to mention her sister Mariabella's endless questions and unabashed sorcerer worship.

Sorcerer worship? Hah.

Anyone who fell for that good for nothing, two bit, foul mouthed magician was straight on the path to misery. Cleo would be the first to tell any girl that, and she had, on several occasions. After all, she was along to "protect her investment" and she could do just that. It was just a slight inconsistency about which investment she was protecting a lot of the time. He was obviously as cold-blooded as she'd always said, and Cleo was damn glad she hadn't let him have his way with her after all.

Damn glad. The tears that ran from her eyes mingled with the cold October rain. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she just listened to her mother, just this once. She covered her face with wet hands and seethed into them, trying to catch the sudden sobs flying out with her rain slick palms. Trembling had spread to her limbs, and it could have been the the temperature or just the long awaited collapse of her determination and the cracking of her heart. She was such a fool.

Yes, a pathetic fool. Bawling in the rain like a spoiled child. But insulting herself wouldn't make the tears dry. Even after her head was pounding and her face hot and her eyes stinging, the tears continued; the catlike hiccup of her weeping dampened only by her hands and the roar of the pouring midnight rain. Pitiful, ridiculous, bawling little idiot child…it was all her fault, really. She knew that. Her fault. If she just would have paid more attention and not gotten into his bed in the first place. If she'd just turned tail the second she realized her mistake. If she had just never gone with them to begin with…if she'd just never met him…

"Cleo?"

Surprise jerked all her joints like a spastic puppet, but she did not turn around. She buried her face again, feeling her face burn under her hands. Her spineless sobbing and the rain had drowned out any other sound to her ears, even footsteps in the grass behind her. What had made him come here? Why _here_, why _now_, of all times? And why did it have to be _him_? Even now, she couldn't stop crying…if anything, it swelled in her chest and she clenched her teeth to avoid the urge to weep even more desperately.

"Hey, what's the matter? You're supposed to be at your house, aren't you?" She didn't have to look back to know it was him, she'd know that voice anywhere. Razorblade sharp and vaguely accented with a throaty tone from up north, it sliced through the incoherent hiss of the storm, his words crystal clear even as he was still approaching.

She couldn't answer, holding her breath as if it might stall her lament. She held it as long as her strained lungs would allow, then exhaled on a loud, heartbroken sob. _'Please just go away,'_ she wanted to say. _'Please just leave me alone.' _She cringed in embarrassment as, finally, she could sense him standing behind her. If he didn't think of her as an incompetent, worthless child, he certainly would now. And all of this only made the tears flood out faster.

His voice was much closer now, she could hear him crouch in the grass near her. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

She could tell from his voice, he'd meant to sound concerned. It was just Orphen's way, he always came across like that whether he really intended to or not. His asking at all was what should have mattered under any other circumstance.

She ripped her hands away from her face and shrieked at him. "Christ! What a way to ask a person what's the matter, jerk!" she snapped, her voice ravaged by tears. She was soaked through by now, her pale hair dripping down her sodden, rust-colored blouse.

"Princess, you should be grateful I even came all the way out here in this shitty rain to ask you that! What the hell is your problem?" She'd expected no less of a response.

"You needn't have bothered." She choked, trying to sound the way her mother would expect after being spoken to that way, but the whimper that followed only made her sound like a child trying to be a grown-up and her breath caught on the edge of a sob. "Just leave me alone, _Orphen_, is that so much to ask?"

She heard him stand up, whipping his cloak to the side to keep the rain out. "All right, I'll leave you out here in the rain. Catch your death for all I care, less trouble for me when you're out of my goddamn way. I swear…" he was grousing, his boots sloshing away in the wet grass. Her reaction flew from her mouth before she'd even had a chance to mentally inspect it.

"**FUCK YOU**!" she screamed over her shoulder at him, and heard him freeze. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him swing around angrily, his face finally coming into view. His eyebrows were raised, his hair wet and sticking to his face. He looked fairly taken aback at her verbal explosion. Sure, they fought a lot, but it had _never_ escalated to the violent hostility she had just belted out at him. Immediately she wished she'd have just shut up and let him walk away.

She just sat in the wet grass, soaked to the bone, her fisted hands clenched on the grass, miserably glowering back at him and looking like a wet cat. And he stood, staring back at her, the ice brutally broken between them. Thunder rumbled overhead, adding a drama that she didn't necessarily appreciate. It was the confrontation she'd been hoping for, and _dreading_, for two months.

The cold and dark seemed to leech into her skin, and suddenly that summer night in his arms seemed so far away. The lake of her childhood felt so far away, even though it was at her fingertips, all the innocent idealism and romanticism she associated with it had faded tonight when she'd decided she'd just been used and had been spared the humiliation of being degraded entirely. She should be triumphant, and instead felt like drowning herself in the lake.

It was all ruined. She couldn't continue ignoring these feelings that were burning a veritable hole through her, to say nothing of her mother's final ultimatum in their latest row. Maybe it would be better for her in the long run to get away from him, although she would have to return home and walk down one of those horrible paths she'd been avoiding for over a year now. As he stood staring at her, stunned and obviously stung, she felt just a tiny wash of victory before the sobs welled up again and she desperately struggled to bite them back. She snapped her head back around toward the lake, burying her face in her wet knees, wrapping her arms around them tightly. All she could do now was cry, each sob echoing up against her wet legs, but she didn't…couldn't…care anymore. If he could hear, let him hear, she hoped it would make him feel guilty, even though it was obvious he wasn't capable of feeling anything. Her shoulders shook, each cry grew more painful, working its way out of her chest in a single gush over her tired vocal cords before she caught it on its way out, and inhaled it quickly back in, only to let it escape in a shuttering breath. She couldn't have sounded more pathetic. She knew that.

"Cleo…" he said again, coming back up behind her, his voice less sharp this time. In fact, he almost sounded upset, maybe disarmed a little by her hysterics. Either way, she didn't look up. "_Hey_…" his hand closed around her bicep, and she tried to tug it away.

"Leave me alone!" she hiccupped, and his hand tightened around her arm.

"Alright, Cleo, let's go." He said, his other arm snagging her flailing wrist and pulling her to her knees. "God, you're _soaked_."

She resisted, feeling like a child in his unrelenting grip, weakly pushing at him, trying to reclaim her limbs. "Let me go!"

"Stop it, what's the matter with you? Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm not just going to let you fuckin' sit out here. You can have your pity party inside if you have to, yell at me all you want." He caught her hand in his. "Goddamnit, you're freezing."

She'd been refusing to look him in the eye until now, the anger coiling up inside her and begging to come out. "What do you mean, '_what's the matter with me'_?!" she yelped, her voice already tortured and coming out abraded and shrill. "How can you really be that thick? _You're_ what's the matter, you brain-dead prick! _You!_" She already regret the words as they tumbled off her lips and into the rain thick air between them.

He didn't let go. "What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean? I haven't done anything to you!"

"Of course you haven't, why would you want to do _anything_ to me?! You _bastard_! You were just going to go on forever pretending it never happened?! I'm just supposed to act like everything's the same and when it's _not anymore_?"

The hard, irritated expression on his face immediately dropped away with the falling rain. He let go of her suddenly and she dropped back into the wet grass with a slosh. "Oh…"

She glared up at him. He wanted to look away, she could tell. He wanted to run away from this. "Oh? That's it? _Nothing to say_?" she mocked, mimicking the line he'd used on her that night. That night when the delicate balance that held everything together had been destroyed.

"Well…" he muttered, suddenly fumbling for words. Mr. Personality, who had a comment in his jaw for everything and everyone, scrambling around for a sentence. She elicited a tiny amount of satisfaction from that, but not enough to soothe the wrenching in her chest. "I didn't think it was a big deal…you haven't even mentioned it…"

"Mentioned it?!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and swinging at him, her spread palm striking him hard across the face, the rain on his skin amplifying the crack of the unexpected strike. She was barely up before her quick ascent, the exhaustion from her sobbing, and all of her tangled emotions turned her stomach to stone and her vision short circuited. The ground went out of focus and her head whirled, everything in her world swallowed in a jarring explosion of white sparks before she was falling.

And, typical, he'd caught her before she'd even realized she was stumbling. Her mind spun with vertigo and fury. She'd just slapped him and he could have let her fall in the mud, and he didn't. He was cursing at her, but she could barely hear. All she heard was the rain hissing on the surface of the lake for a moment until his voice finally cut through the gurgling. "---you moron, how long have you been sitting out here?!"

"…don't know…" she muttered, suddenly sleepy, the dizziness not quite subsiding. Her head was absolutely pounding. All that crying. She should have known better.

He was pulling off his cloak, loosening the clasp around his neck and wrapping it around her. The inside was warm and scratchy but dry, and it smelled like him. He smelled vaguely like cinnamon; he always had. She'd never told him so, but it was one of her favorite things about him. He didn't know if it was his soap or cologne or just a natural scent he carried with him, but it made her love him all the more, and now she was literally wrapped in it. Somehow it was difficult to be too afraid of anyone who smelled like cinnamon, and that made her smile. When he was being particularly cruel or menacing, it made it easier to stand up to him, to fight on a level playing field; and in his quieter moments, it just made him that much more irresistible.

The warmth tingled on her cold skin, she could feel the pressure of the rain drumming on her but never working through the fabric. Her mind began to clear, and she realized he was carrying her. She meant to protest, instead she simply observed: "You're getting wet…"

She thought she heard him laugh at that, a sort of dry bark of a laugh like snapping a twig. Her cheek rested against his warm neck as he walked, her long wet hair swinging in dripping blonde ropes over his shoulder. Where was he taking her? "Please," she mumbled, "don't make me go back home."

He seemed to slow a moment and look down at her for an elaboration on that request, but she hid her face and awaited his reply, which was a flat: "…all right."

He started up again, walking quickly, the hard rain hammering against him in a slanting curtain while she curled in his arms, wrapped up and trembling despite her resolve. She felt helpless and silly and yet couldn't help the feeling of comfort that washed up into her as her skin thawed. She hadn't meant for this to happen. How could she talk to him now that their confrontation had been so completely interrupted?

Well, she supposed she'd said quite enough. She'd struck him, after all. But he hadn't had a chance to reply, and she dreaded the fact that now she'd opened Pandora's Box, and as he carried her off, she would not be able to close it now.


	3. The Devil

**Chapter Three: The Devil  
**

Her breath. It was driving him absolutely goddamn crazy.

She was right about him. Not only was he a complete sonofabitch, but a liar as well. Not a big deal? Sometimes the things that randomly came out of his mouth even surprised him. Of course what had happened had been a big deal. It had been a very big fucking deal. A big enough fucking deal to make him want to _hide_ from her for the last month or whatever, if only he could have. Instead, he'd taken the next best option: he'd ignored it. As much as anyone could ignore something like that.

Even now, he couldn't say why he'd done it. He'd been so tired. Exhausted. As usual, he'd narrowly escaped getting himself cleanly gutted during the day, which had been stressful enough, but then she'd showed up in his bed, barely dressed, in the middle of the night. To begin with, he'd suspected initially he'd been having some sort of twisted dream his brain had conjured up to torture him. But then he'd felt her touch him, just lightly. And he didn't know quite what had happened. Predictably, he'd reacted in anger, which was followed by what felt like a heartbeat of missing time. One second he was grabbing her wrist furiously, the next her mouth was opening under his, responding to an inexplicable, openmouthed kiss he hadn't intended at all and yet he'd continued with it; something for which he had no excuse but a perfectly acceptable explanation in his own mind. He'd continued not only because she had responded, but because of _how_ she'd responded—with an unexpected enthusiasm in the press and slide of her lips, her legs wrapping around his, her hips pushing up slowly against him with an insinuative invitation. Like she _wanted_ him to fuck her.

And, oh _God_, how he'd wanted to. Excruciatingly. Even as his brain throbbed with warnings and protest; red flags that had been drowned out in the roaring rush of incensed blood tearing through him as she allowed the slow crawl of his hands all over her body, up her legs and beyond the hem of her tiny little damn slip as she would _never_ have before. Any sense of reason he'd been trying to cling to had gone up in smoke at that, and he'd been tempted to the edge of his sanity, which wasn't too difficult when one considered how close to that edge he routinely teetered. This was just one of the reasons why he avoided touching her, whenever he could help it. Because…when he did, well. Nothing good came of it. He thought he did a commendable job of it most of the time, he wasn't exactly touchy to begin with, and he'd been pretty clear with himself from the beginning about keeping his goddamn dirty hands off of her.

Which hadn't been a problem. You know, at first.

Usually a good fight could wipe his mind clean of any sort of weird thoughts that might crop up about her, and likewise, she had a dictionary of fairly accurate insults on his character that was good for just those occasions. He'd been gearing up for a good row with her, just to finally set things right, when he'd stormed out to find her sitting in the rain. But for once, tonight, she'd caught him off guard. He'd never seen her so…well, whatever she'd been. For some reason, the word "buckled" came to mind. Like a bridge under too much weight. She'd barely had it _in_ her to argue with him. She'd just been sitting there, sobbing in the freezing goddamn rain because he was a thoughtless sleaze who'd done nothing but belittle and fight with her and had then turned around and tried to take advantage of her when she'd actually shown some trust in him and had come innocently for help. And, in keeping with that sangfroid tradition, as he was now carrying her back to the Inn after she'd actually _struck_ him and she'd shrieked the foulest thing he'd ever heard come out of her little rosebud mouth…and all he could think about was her hot breath and lips panting against his neck and how it made him _burn_.

Oh yes, he was definitely a bastard, that much was certain. And as much as he hated knowing that about himself, it did nothing to assuage the familiar, infuriating and downright hypocritical smolder rising in his body.

He thought he'd done well to just let the whole thing slide. Predictably, the most contrary part of him had absolutely itched to approach the subject with her, maybe only because he had firmly told himself to let it all be, and never had he been any good at doing what he'd been told…or maybe because he felt the strangest urge to ask her to forgive him; to let her know he really didn't normally do that sort of thing out of nowhere, not like she'd probably want to know. Of course, he couldn't do either of those things. So, under the circumstances, he thought he'd done the _best thing he could_. He certainly couldn't explain. God knew _why_ he'd done it. He guessed it just had crossed his mind, and his brain having been lacking in oxygen or clarity or whatever the fuck it needed to be sensible, and he'd just dumbly followed through with it. Unthinkingly.

He shouldn't have felt quite as thunderstruck as he did that she was this upset. He'd just expected her to be this upset immediately after he'd done it, instead of quietly seething about it for weeks, which wasn't like her at all. Regardless, he'd been able to easily catch on that…what happened…had bothered her. Which bothered _him_, annoyingly fucking enough. Made him defensive. Made him want to grab her and shake her and remind her that she was lucky he'd been brought to his senses in time or he would have really given her something to be bothered about, and demand she tell him why he was pretty sure she would have _let_ him.

He swallowed thickly and pushed in the heavy door of the Lin family's lodge and tavern with his foot and let it swing shut behind him. It was late, perhaps already past one, and all the gaslights on the first floor were long snuffed. He slunk carefully past dark masses of tables and stools, up a narrow set of stairs, then down the door crowded corridor to his old room. He shifted the sniffing wet jumble in his arms to free up a hand and open the door to his room. His lamp was still lit, casting an amber glow across the rough wooden floor and furnishings. He stooped to lay his shivering bundle on the unmade bed before turning away.

In a few fluid motions, he had removed his vest and left it draped across the back of a wooden chair to dry. His wet bandana and gloves joined it, dripping onto the unvarnished floor, while he removed his shirt, wrung it out into the sink, snapped it dry, and draped it with the rest of his wet garments. He set about drying his dripping hair, leaving his damp towel draped around his neck while he brought another to Cleo, who still lay curled in his cloak, eyes closed to the world, though the deep furrow in her brow gave her consciousness away. He nudged her with his knee, dropping the towel beside her when her eyes flickered up.

"You should get out of those wet clothes."

At this, her gaze turned into a glare, but he had already turned back to the window, rubbing a towel against his hair. "I won't look," he assured her.

Cleo's sense had mostly returned, a caustic remark finding its way to her lips with no effort at all as she sat up and began unbuttoning her soaked blouse. "Of course you won't, you've already seen quite enough of me to last you the rest of your life when you peeped through my window, _creep_."

She was only half serious; she'd known for a long time that the entire incident had been a misunderstanding, and he'd been watching for a signal. It had all been part of his scheme to lay his hands on the Baltander's Sword…the sword her father had obtained for his fencing-aficionado daughter only months before his death, which just so happened to have been the same sword that upheaved Orphen's entire life; the sword whose twisted enchantment had changed the beautiful, brilliant and ambitious Azalea Kettoshi into a mindless creature bent on destruction. Still, she continued on, as it was something of a joke between them…much as he probably didn't know that. "I should tell everyone that you're just a depraved, two-bit sorcerer who saw me nude." She slid off her boots and stood, unzipping her skirt.

She heard him sigh hard, exasperated with her as usual. The sound of her zipper coming down certainly didn't help his frustration level any. Maybe it wouldn't have if he actually had seen anything. He supposed it was his own fault for joking with her about it, telling her that whatever he'd seen hadn't been very impressive. And what he'd seen amounted to absolutely nothing. He hadn't even been looking in that damn direction. Hell, he'd been staking out the Everlasting Estate with his cohorts on the inside signaling to him for nearly a year by the time she bloody showed up, home from boarding school and coming at him with a goddamn _sword_ in hand, ready to take off whatever piece of him she could. He might not have been quite as interested if it hadn't been the same sword he'd been seeking for five years. And funny how Azalea had chosen that moment to finally materialize from nothing, black lightning cracking the sky all around her grotesque form like a demon birthing from the blistered womb of Hell.

Well, that was all over now. Except that Cleo was still tagging along. Somehow. And though he would liked to have said he'd given her no encouragement to do so, but it unfortunately wasn't true. In a moment of insanity, once he'd been able to walk out of the sanatorium after using the Baltander's Sword to restore Azalea to her original state; a sorcerous event that had very nearly killed him, he'd come back to Totokanta with Majic in tow, seeking her out. He'd grown used to having her around. And honestly, if there was anything Orphen hated, it was change.

"Listen," he said. "I've _told_ you…"

She finished for him, "Yes, yes, you felt nothing seeing me." There was a thread of sadness sewn into her tone that she hadn't intended. But it had been his usual reply to her accusations. She let her skirt drop to the floor.

"No—god_damn_ it, that I _didn't_…" he insisted, so intent on setting her straight that he swung around, unthinking. Cleo yelped reflexively, crossing her arms over her brassiere as though it really mattered by now what he'd seen, and scowled. Immediately he'd recognized the mistake, his hand flying up to obscure her from his vision. He started over to the worn armchair by the window, his hand still in place between his eyes and her body.

"Ah, _fuck_, I'm sorry."

Cleo positively growled, her hands balling convulsively into fists. "Oh yes, nothing you'd want to see, better avert your eyes if you don't want to lose your dinner, _Orphen_."

Sometimes he just didn't know why he did the things he did. Or said. Sometimes the allure of getting her riled up outshined his sense of self-preservation and reason. "Well, good thing I _haven't_ eaten…"

Several things happened in quick succession. No sooner had he said it than she'd marched right up to him, her mouth set in a hard line, reached behind her back, unclasped her brassiere in front of him, placed a palm on his bare chest and shoved him back _hard_ into the armchair he'd been leaning on. He fell into it with a genuine gasp just as she climbed into the chair, planted a knee on each side of his hips and glared down at him in the lamplight.

That was it. She'd had it, absolutely had it. Maybe it was just her emotions running high as they were, but she'd reached a boiling point she hadn't even known existed. She _knew_ she wasn't _that_ bad to look at; she was petite and blonde and she'd been eyed before by boys, yet Orphen had merely insisted since the moment he met her that she was borderline repulsive and he couldn't be less interested in her romantically, sexually…or any other way in general. Well, and then he'd gone and put his hands all over her, kissed her into a brainless madness and jacked her hopes up so high only to have them crash back into the ground, the _hypocrite_. It wasn't the first time Cleo's temper had trumped her modesty, and she had the element of surprise on her side, at least. She didn't really give it all much thought; it was just an impulse. She threw her dignity to the wind and in the time it took to blink, she resolved that she'd gauge his reaction herself and decide once and for all how much water all his insults held. Even if he showed nothing but complete apathy, at least it was an answer that meant an end to all the maddening guessing.

"Cleo!" he choked, trying to keep his eyes to himself and failing miserably.

"That bad, huh? Do you feel sick? So you really feel nothing? Nothing at _all_?" she inquired acidly, planting a hand on each of his shoulders and pushing him back against the spine of the chair, taking a seat right on his lap so he could properly see her. All of her. Her skin painted the color of clover honey in the lamplight, wet, wheat colored hair clinging across her bare shoulders, blue eyes burning down at him from behind a long fringe of dark, wet eyelashes that he determinedly avoided looking at more than anything else.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" he snapped defensively. God, he had to get her _off_ of him.

He grabbed her hips to shove her off and immediately cursed himself for touching her, restraining the primitive impulse to arch up against her instead. His hands snapped away from her like she'd burned him and gripped the arms of the chair as he tried to look away.

She regarded him as calmly as she could, her head tilted to the side as she watched him struggle to breathe evenly. His normally olive complexion seemed distinctly pale. "Maybe I should stop believing the _crap_ that comes out of your mouth…" she steeled herself and boldly dropped a hand between his legs to palm the predictably rigid flesh there, "and see what you feel for myself."

He inhaled sharply at the intimate contact, jerking back in astonishment at her behavior, immediately opening his mouth to snap back…but nothing came out except a weak grunt, somewhere between helplessness and protest. Finally his eyes shot up to her face, which was conveniently and intentionally averted from his scrutiny.

"_You_ are out of your _mind_," he hissed at her.

She slid her unoccupied hand around his shoulders, steadfastly ignoring that comment and pressing herself against him, flesh to flesh, resting her head beside his, listening to him breathing shakily while his hands remained determinedly fastened on the arms of the chair. She stroked him lightly through the material of his pants, and demanded hotly in his ear. "So, nothing at all?"

He almost moaned aloud and bit it back, like a starving dog being tested for obedience. She'd _lost_ it_. _ Cleo, who would just as soon sock him in the face if she thought he'd gotten too nice a glimpse of her thigh, climbing all over him half naked and demanding he admit he liked what he saw. What the _fuck_. She could tell very well he felt just about _anything_ but nothing, even if it was just a kneejerk reaction he couldn't control, and it wasn't his fault. Hell, she had her little hand all over the best evidence of that. He'd never been any good at admitting defeat, and he didn't certainly know what to say for himself now.

Was this just some kind of sick torture? Payback?

In a pathetic whisper that stuck in his throat like a bramble, he did the only thing that ever worked for him in uncomfortable situations: he lied.

"….nothing…" Even his voice trembled. Very persuasive. "…now let me up."

She didn't. Instead, her hand shifted a fraction on what was a now painful, throbbing problem. "You're not very convincing, Orphen."

"Well, what the fuck _else_ is gonna happen with you crawling all over me like that?" he wheezed petulantly. He'd certainly considered just shoving her to the ground and storming out, but it wasn't much of a solution. It was clear that this all had progressed much further past just running from it, much as he would love to. He tried, for once, to use his reasonable voice, which wavered miserably. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

"To prove that you're a liar," she countered; her voice that same hot, seductive breeze on his neck from before. "Say it."

"Say _what_?" The press of her naked flesh on his was _so_ distracting.

"That you're a liar."

He swallowed thickly, trying to pull himself together. "_Fine_. I'm a _liar_." Boy, she didn't know the half of _that_ statement.

She smiled at that, he could tell. "And to prove that you actually _don't_ think I'm disgusting."

He would have laughed at that if he'd had a drop of wit in his skull. Disgusting? He couldn't think of a word that fit Cleo less. Yes, she was an annoying, infuriating, spoiled, volatile, whining, persistent, selfish little fucking princess. But no, disgusting was the wrong word. But had he implied that?

Well. _Yeah_.

Because when he started thinking things that sounded like he didn't really hate her as much as he always insisted, he started feeling guilty. Strangely torn, like those men he'd seen executed by being pulled apart by two horses running opposite directions. There was this particular feeling he got sometimes when he'd watch her, and they weren't arguing, an uneasy anxious squeezing in his chest that came with an inexplicable panic. Everything was just easier…safer…when she was pissed off at him. It usually worked. He half wondered where that strategy had gone wrong.

"Oh for…_fuck's_ sake, don't you have a mirror in your castle? Have you looked at yourself? Is there something there you'd call disgusting?" He did his best to keep his voice level. She wriggled in his lap, pushing back off his shoulders to look down at him, her eyes looking the same blue the sky looks on a cold spring morning, bright with her quick temper. She gave him that look all the time. Except this time she was topless and straddling him in her underwear. It had a different effect. His hands were practically cramping with the need to reach out and touch her. His mouth was a desert.

"Because you tell me that all the time! That I have all the curves of a twig! I have absolutely nothing that would appeal to the likes of you, you _sonofabitch_!"

"Yeah…well…now you know, alright? I don't think that, I'm just—"

"And _you_ just pretended it never happened! You wouldn't even look at me! You just ignored me when I snuck into your room those times! You were fucking with me then too? Poor stupid Cleo, too thick to know any better! Just go ahead and use her when you feel like it and then tell her she's an undeveloped, ugly dipshit the rest of the time?"

A gust of wind-driven rain clattered against the windowpane. He just stared up at her, dumbstruck. "You were awake…" he started, only to be met with her burning glare to point him back down the road of the explanation of his actions that he didn't have. "Well, no…it's just...that night, you said you heard something…outside. I thought you made it up... Then there really _was_ something going on out there. You'd come for help and ah…_I don't know_, okay? I…wasn't _thinking_. I just did whatever I wanted. I thought you…" he was starting to realize that his bumbling reasoning sounded ridiculous, when he tried to say it all out loud. It had all made perfect sense in his head, which wasn't saying too much. It was funny, after two months thinking about it, he didn't have much of an answer cobbled together.

The truth was he really didn't know why he'd done what he had to begin with: why he'd suddenly acted on the impulse he'd been fighting with every breath in his body on a regular basis, like keeping a raging devil chained up inside him. His abrupt departure that night had been an escape from the upsetting ferocity of that unleashed demon, and afterward, he'd felt almost desperate to forget all about it. Which, of course, he hadn't been able to do. For the last several weeks, he hadn't been able to even talk to her, fight with her, _look_ at her without that memory creeping up on him, sending that long denied fiend inside straining against its chains violently.

Luckily, she interrupted his sentence again. "You dumbass! And why wouldn't I have broken your fingers for touching me if I didn't _want you to_?" she snapped.

"But…" As he protested, he could feel rationale leaving him, could feel the metaphorical chains snapping. Of course, she was right. She would have. But he'd known that all along. He'd been more afraid of what he would do if she didn't, and he'd found the first excuse not to find out.

"But fuckin' what? Didn't you know what to do with me?" Her crystalline eyes were blazing with insolence, her bare body flushed with anger, her hands splayed on his chest. And to make it worse, she was beautiful as goddamn hell like that. Not to mention that she was starting to sound like him, which was sort of interesting in itself. He kind of liked that for some reason.

Despite that, or maybe because of that, his aching body acted of its own volition at that colorful challenge, his hands jerking away from the arms of the chair to slide up the curve of her back and yank her down against him, crushing his mouth against hers. She protested the end of her diatribe for only a moment before coiling her arms around his neck, returning the affection feverishly, raking her fingers back through his damp hair. The wind barraged rain against the windowpanes, the squares of thin glass lit up in momentary electric brilliance and faded. Ordinarily, the thunder that followed would have startled Cleo, but in that moment she could barely hear it, all it was to her was a rumble in a distant dimension that mimicked the sound of her hammering heartbeat.

Suddenly his previously restrained hands were everywhere at once: in her hair, down her back, cupping her half clad rear to pull her tighter against him. Her mouth tasted sweet, and she squirmed in his lap to get closer, each movement of her body invoking a sort of narcotic madness through his nerves. Suddenly the armchair felt like a prison, and he pressed a nervous, scorching trail of kisses from her collarbone to just below her ear, sweeping her hair away from her neck and murmuring beside her ear just loud enough for her to hear him as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"I dance in thee, mansion of heaven."

Of course, she'd heard that spell from his lips many times before, but it had definitely never sounded like that to her until now. She would _almost_ say it sounded romantic. Already they'd vanished from the chair, rematerializing together on the unmade bed as they rolled, exchanging places, mouths locked in a frenetic kiss. He balanced his weight above her, looking down briefly at her flushed, mostly bare body, her glazed eyes reflecting the haze of the honey colored lamplight as she blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling quickly. Orphen couldn't fight the smirk sneaking up on him, or the fear, so he ignored both and leaned down, his mouth on her neck and trailing downward with each kiss toward her clavicle, then lower, inch by inch—Cleo's pulse racing faster and faster—until he tasted the rosy pink tip of her right breast. Her breath caught on a jerking gasp, her spine arching her upward against him, allowing his hands to explore the warm continent of her skin as he kneed apart her legs. He switched sides suddenly, tasting her, and she whimpered, then all at once he'd found her mouth again, his tongue slowly sliding against hers in an erotic simulation of what was really on his mind. Cleo responded by tilting her pelvis upward against his, dragging a groan from deep in his throat at that primal invitation.

He ground against her impulsively, responding to her movement with a primitive instinct that was quickly surfacing. She wound her legs around his and arched against him again, trembling with nerves and adrenaline. He moved against her, freeing her mouth and scorching the other side of her neck with searing kisses that melted down over her bare shoulder with each of his ragged, hot breaths. Cleo slid a hand between them and tugged at the buttons on his trousers.

Her feathery touch slid over him, luring another low groan muffled at the back of his throat. Having the patience to allow her to undo the clasps was agony, the slowness of a single second a descending madness that now he could only drive ever onward to escape. Her fingers slid past the buckles and fabric for a moment to touch him. Just that felt like enough to drive him over the brink, make him go off like a roman candle. He tore his mouth from hers and pulled in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Take them off…?" her whisper teased his earlobe, and he rolled to the side and was kicking the pants off in another second before sliding back over her. Her eyes were washing over him curiously, lustfully, while a hundred awkward insecurities crashed through him. That in itself was confusing; since this wasn't exactly the first time he'd been through all this. Well, the first time with Cleo…and Cleo was always a little bit of a sensitive subject in his mind. There were…well, reasons. They gave him a headache…_she_ gave him a headache. He was fond of her in his own way, though more often than not he wanted to drown her…and he _certainly_ wouldn't go as far as to say he was in _love_ with her.

But then, there couldn't be anyone…there wasn't _allowed_ to be anyone in his heart, one way or the other. There was no room there for anyone but Azalea. It didn't matter that his love for her wasn't exactly of the romantic type, it was more than that. He couldn't imagine feeling _that_ way about Azalea. His feelings for her…they were, well. Complicated. She was all he'd ever had for so long, for as long as he could really remember. As a child, in the orphanage, she'd valued him when no one else would, they'd been recruited to the Tower together when she was nine and he was four. She was his sister in every way but by blood, his role model, his goddess, his everything…and he _owed_ his entire heart to her, regardless of who else might try to inch into it. And even if someone could, Azalea would always have to come first. So he really _couldn't_ feel any particular way about her…even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to anyway. Right. Nevertheless, that anxious twinge of numbing fear wasn't fading. And he didn't want to think about it all now.

After all. This didn't have anything to do with love.

She tangled her bare legs around his, lamplight painting their movement with shadows and gold, their enthusiasm almost akin to desperation. The heat ripping through her made her dizzy, giving her a bravado she would never have had before. This time, she didn't have to think about how quickly it was all happening, and how far she'd let it go before she'd have to stop him. She'd already decided long ago.

"You're going to do it, aren't you?"

His eyes opened suddenly, a little vacant with hysteria, though his voice was soft. "…do what?"

"You're going to _make love to me_, aren't you?" Typical Cleo, she almost sounded annoyed, seemingly unaware that he'd never be able to stop now even if she changed her mind. The chained demon was loose. He could barely speak, for god's sake, he was panting like a dog. Maybe she just wanted to see his incredulous expression and probably got it, but he couldn't tell. If she'd really wanted an answer, a verbal one, he didn't deliver.

It was already happening almost before she knew it, a stinging pain appearing and vanishing, washed away in a tide of adrenaline and the rush of blood shaking through her heart like a flash flood. In the dwindling light, he slid over her like the ocean's rising and falling. Slide and crash. She clung to him, moving with him. Vaguely she could hear the roar of the rain, the rhythm of his breathing. Their skin adhered, limbs tangled together, sweat mingling, their breath racing, mouths coming together in intermittent, heart-pounding kisses.

And with the tension stretching and releasing fiercely like a snapping bowstring; with clenching hands and outcries muffled against skin and bedclothes or ringing into the humid air, it was over as suddenly as it had started.

The following stillness was filled with the running of fingers along bare, hot skin and furtive glances. Cleo reached up to brush some damp hair from his forehead, watching him close his eyes in response to her touch and drop his head to rest it on her chest, breathless, gathering his wits.

Even as they uncoupled, the way he held her against him, the way he was slightly shaking, the hitch in his breath: she had never been more in love with him. Or more afraid to speak and break their momentary truce. He silently pulled the rumpled sheet over them, one arm still around her like he may be afraid to let go. As if letting go, or speaking, might propel them back into reality where they would have to face what they had just done, and how it would irrevocably change everything between them whether they acknowledged it or not.

He didn't seem to have anything to say just now, and for once, Cleo wasn't going to squeeze a comment out of him. She held onto him in the silence, delirious and exhausted with her head on his chest, listening as his heartbeat slowed and began to even out. Soon the emotional fatigue barreled its full weight into her, and she went careening into exhaustion, then tumbling off the steep cliff of sleep.


	4. The Moon

**Chapter Four: The Moon  
**

He watched the flickering shadows on the ceiling, so peculiarly happy and terrified at the same time that he almost felt dizzy. Maybe he was just soaring from the earth shattering climax still trembling in his bones. Maybe it was just a sort of whiplash from the intensity of the whole encounter; they'd come together with such melting ferocity that in the silent aftermath, he almost felt like he might be in shock. He was shaking and everything. His fingers felt a little numb. Cleo, meanwhile, had dropped off to a soundless sleep in his arms.

Or maybe he couldn't believe what he had just done. Shock? Understatement of the year.

He'd been _fighting_ it so long, and when utterly confronted with that ever burning temptation, he had been wholly unable to even defend himself against it as the opportunity and the _permission_ was dropped, quite literally, right into his lap. He couldn't run, couldn't deny it or hide it. Finally giving into that boiling lust felt like finally coming up for air after being trapped underwater. Like the first kiss of rain after a lifetime lost in the desert.

When he was certain she was asleep, Orphen rolled onto his side, sliding her off his chest to look down at her, propping himself up on an elbow, eyeing her for any movement. He brushed her wilted blonde curls away from her forehead softly, watching her face for a reaction. He waited for her eyes to flicker open, but they remained closed; her face soft and relaxed, her expression peaceful. He swept the pad of his thumb gently across her swollen bottom lip, watching as she drew in a deep breath, sighed, and inclined herself closer against him, her hand coming up to curl closer to her face. He swallowed hard, combing his fingers tentatively through the length of her hair, lit up across his pillows like gold satin in the lamplight.

Fuck. He was in _trouble_.

Come morning, what was going to happen now? Could they return to the road and pretend they hadn't shared this bizarre, frantic encounter? From the way they'd acted, one might think they'd heard the world was coming to an end. Could he _ever_ look at her again and not remember her skin painted golden, her body twisting under him? How could he walk next to her and not recall the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands on his body, the hot gasp in the back of her throat as he'd slid inside her? How could he function, travelling with her and going back to keeping his hands to himself, with memories like those? No way would she allow him to pretend it hadn't happened. He wasn't sure he would even be able.

He didn't want to think about it all right now. He didn't want to waste this. Cleo was quietly settled in his arms, and the rain continued on outside as though nothing was different at all. Who knew what kind of mess this all was liable to make? So he just watched her, why he didn't know; listened to her quiet breathing and the hiss of the autumn downpour until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

It was a strange sound that woke him, an undeterminable amount of time later in the dark. The lamp wick had burned down to a bare glowing ember, and the room felt damp and cold, gooseflesh rising on his arms as he shifted in bed, reaching out to find the quilt that had slipped to the floor earlier. The rain was rumbling against the window, driven by a newly risen wind he could hear thrashing in the trees. He pulled the heavy blanket up, reaching to find Cleo in the dark. His fingers settled briefly on her hip and he recoiled at the unexpected cold. She was absolutely freezing. He pulled her forward but she didn't budge, stuck in place, cold as ice, her skin sticky under his hands.

"Hey?" he rasped, his voice thick in his throat. A peculiar, heartsick panic was creeping up his spine like a climbing frost. He jostled her a little and there was no reply. She didn't move. He sat up, feeling for the lamp in the dark and twisting up the wick. The warm light spread over the room like an abrupt sunrise and he turned back to her, only to have the breath ripped from his lungs.

A dark-haired woman with electric eyes stood over the bed, her hands folded casually atop the hilt of a sword, the Baltander's sword, which she had driven down into the chest of the sleeping blonde, opening a nightmarish chasm. Blood spilled down her bare skin like bright Christmas ribbons, soaking into the white sheets around her and wicking up the ends of her scattered pale hair. Her eyes were still closed, she'd never even had the chance to defend herself. He hadn't heard her scream, hadn't felt the impact of the blade…he'd had just slept through it all. And Orphen was too lightheaded and shaking with rage and horror and grief and shock and overwhelming _nausea_ to do anything for that split second but stare.

Then, finally, a strangled whisper squeezed through his throat. "Azalea? Wha…what have you _done_?"

She had her usual serene, almost condescending smile beaming down at him for a second longer, still leaning on the butt of the sword, her chin resting on the rise of her wrist a moment longer before she straightened up, her face gradually creasing with disgust. "What have _I_ done?" she repeated smoothly, though her eyes burned at him. "No no, Krylancelo, you mean what have _you_ done?"

He reeled, sick to his stomach. He couldn't shout. He couldn't bring anyone running, at least not yet. To begin with, he was still naked. "Azalea, _why_?" He felt his voice crack, more than he heard it.

She sank the sword in deeper, and Cleo's body didn't resist it. The action was complimented obscenely by a sharp squelching sound that made his insides twist with a violent threat of upheaval. Immediately he recognized the sound that had woken him. Inexplicably, she'd lanced Cleo with the same sword that had nearly destroyed her in her own self-experimentation…and in the process had utterly destroyed everything he was and had ever believed in. Those years ago, when the Tower had preferred to declare their rising star sorceress dead rather than face the scandal the accident was liable to cause, he'd lost himself in the predictable rage that had followed. He'd abandoned the Tower of Kiba, despite the future of wealth and notoriety that had been promised to him as a the most apt prodigy the school had seen in decades, and followed the life of a derelict bent on revenge and restoration of his beloved 'sister'.

Not that she really cared about that. There had never been anyone more important in Azalea's heart than Azalea herself. But that was just the way she had always been, he couldn't grudge her _that_. An ancient echo of his own voice reached his ears as he'd smashed open the empty coffin at Azalea's mock funeral, snapping the Tower pendant from his neck in a black rage.

"_Azalea. Isn't. Dead. But, I'll give you something to bury in her place. You can bury Krylancelo. The name, the title. All of it. Krylancelo is dead, and I'm just an orphan…" _

He gasped at the sick sound of the sinking blade, looking down on impulse and finding her bright blood smeared on his skin, shining wet on his quaking hands. He felt bile rising in his throat.

"Why what, Krylancelo? I should be asking you! How could you have done this? Have you forgotten me so easily? After everything I've _been_ for you…" her voice escalated to a shrill cry. "I haven't done this! You have! _You have_!" She ripped out the sword, her face a mask of rage, a scatter of ruby droplets sparkling airborne in the lamplight and started to swing it in a bloody arc toward him. He pushed his hands in front of him, and suddenly couldn't remember a single spell to save himself. God, what were the words?

"I-I spin thee…"

Just as abruptly as the sword swung, he jerked up out of sleep. He sucked in a breath so hard and fast he nearly choked on it, finding himself back in the dark, the wick burnt down to a smolder on the table. He was freezing, shaking uncontrollably, his heart thrashing in his chest like a caged bird. Nightmares were hardly anything new to him, but they were rarely so lucid. Or straightforward, as it were. His senses were completely thrown, and not much clarity regarding reality was afforded by the darkness in the room.

How much of it had all been a dream? When had he fallen asleep? Was he still asleep now? Had he slept at all? Had the entire night, everything with Cleo…had it all just been a feverish dream? Would he turn up that lamp to find that horrifying reality still waiting for him; would he find himself _alone_? He felt the anxiety burning in his throat as he strained to hear something like before…but there was nothing but the ringing silence that came after the rain. A shift in the bed finally answered his unspoken question, and warm fingertips tentatively touched his back.

"Orphen?" Her voice was sleep-thick and raw, and he'd never been so happy to hear it in his life. "What's the matter?"

He swallowed, willing his heart to calm before he had some kind of anxiety attack. "Ah—I'm…" he took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. "Nothing," he mumbled, shaking his head as he felt her arms slowly sliding around him. His conscience was burning with criticism for allowing it, but he made no move to stop her.

With the sudden recollection of the sight of her in that dream, he only leaned more into her arms. God, there really was something wrong with his brain today. He just couldn't get his fucking act together at all, every instinct he'd usually operate on was sliding right out of his head and his body was doing the exact opposite. Even now, he welcomed the relief of her embrace and lay back down, his cheek pressed lightly against her temple, breathing in the lavender scent of her damp hair. It was too dark to see her clearly, but he could feel her breath on his collarbone when she spoke.

"You're shaking," she murmured, her voice small. "Are you…alright?" He nodded absently, running his fingers through her hair and following its path down her bare back until she shifted away and felt around the foot of the bed for the heavy eiderdown they'd pushed away earlier, and began tugging it up. Dim, silent lightning flickered out the window across the room, catching her silhouette and the profile of her face as she was turning back toward him, and for that moment he could see her entirely. Her translucent eyes caught his as he lay there on his back, watching her in that brief strobe of light. And just like that, there it was again. That feeling. The peculiar constricting sensation in his chest, like his heart tripped and had to run to catch up. That uneasy feeling that drove him insane, made him sweat and unfailingly made him want to pick a fight so it would just be lost in a wave of anger. But under the particular circumstances, instead it left him feeling a little paralyzed. Even when the room had gone dark again and she was easing back into bed beside him with the quilt comfortably pulled up, the sensation persisted ruthlessly.

His arms went back around her as she sidled up to his warmth, and Cleo propped herself up on her elbow to hover over him, seeming to hesitate before cautiously pressing her mouth lightly against his. He responded shakily at first, reaching up to touch her face, hands trailing down the column of her neck, over her shoulders to the warm acres of her naked skin from her back to the valley of her waist.

The images from the dream grew steadily foggier as he began to relax, feeling the warm slide of her legs tangling around his. Their kisses were soft-mouthed and slow, passion reigniting to a stately burn. His mouth slid away and he buried his face against her neck to kiss along her throat, gradually coaxing her legs around him. He caught her hand with his, their fingers weaving together tightly as he was slipping inside her again, into that white hot, breathless oblivion; stoking the fire between them with a slow, burning pace to bring them to that blazing peak. Lightning pressed its bright face against the window once more, and in the pale blue strobe he caught a vision of her moving atop him; like a freeze frame from any soul-twisting fantasy he'd ever had about her while lying in the dark campsite after the fire went out. He might as well have been punched for how entirely that sight tore the breath from him just as she winced and cried out, her hand flexing tight around his, the nails of her other hand clawing hard down his shoulder to close into a fist. The resulting flash of pain only pushed him off the edge, his neck arcing back against the pillow, a ragged moan tearing loose from his throat.

They lay silent for several minutes, breathing racing; waiting for thoughts to come back into focus. She had collapsed onto him, her cheek against his chest, and outside he could hear the wind picking up, the soft tick of new raindrops on the window. A rapid exhaustion was lowering over him like a quick twilight, and he reached down to pull the blankets back up. Almost tenderly, he reclined with her and faded into a dreamless sleep as the rain began to gurgle at the windows once more, only barely aware that his fingers were still tightly braided with hers.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Someone was knocking on the door, loud and steady. Orphen cracked open an eye, and steered his gaze to the window, where rose colored light was beginning to light the sky outdoors, and from the sound of it, it was still raining. He was warm. Comfortable. Long, delicate arms were twisted around him, a leg hooked intimately around one of his. He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up feeling so good. Or so apprehensive.

Either way, there was no way he was moving to answer that door.

"Master?" A familiar voice called from on the other side of the door. _Fuck_. He considered yelling at him to go away, but…doing so would definitely compromise the current situation he was trying to preserve. It had to be early. His eyes scanned for the wall clock, but the room was too dark to discern where the hands were pointing. Yeah, it was definitely too early for this. Majic should have known to leave him alone at this hour. There must have been something going on. He waited. Maybe the kid would just try again later.

Silence. He waited long enough that his eyes began to drift back closed, then the knocking snapped them back open. Three solid, decisively loud knocks. "Master…I'm sorry. I know it's early…"

That kid was always too nice. If he didn't answer, he might just go ahead and open the goddamned door himself; he surely had the master key to the Inn. And he couldn't remember if he'd taught him "gate of origin" yet or not. And regardless, using the "border of fate" incantation to seal the door would still require getting out of bed. Not to mention the noise it was likely to make. No. _No_. He might as fucking well find out what was important enough to be banging on the door before it was light enough to read the clock. He detangled himself just enough to sit up, suddenly distracted as his gaze fell like a sinking stone upon Cleo as she slept there, the way her golden hair soaked up the rosy light, the way her bare skin glowed pale pink, the way it illuminated the gentle expression on her sleeping face. She was deceptively lovely when she wasn't mouthing off at him.

Fuck. _What_ had he been thinking?

Orphen felt corner of his mouth tighten up, torn between a grimace and a smirk. He didn't have a clue what he was doing anymore. He threw back the sheet to climb quietly out of bed, sliding out and hunting around on the floor for his pants. As he was fastening the clasps, he turned, his eyes falling to the place he'd vacated on the exposed fitted sheet and the bloodstains smeared on the cream colored linen.

It wasn't a lot a lot of blood. Not like his dream. But enough for a sudden cold fist of guilt to punch him hard in the stomach. He felt a little sick. Majic was knocking again, and Orphen was far away, busy thinking about blood stained wedding sheets as he stared at those crimson spots like they were accusing him of treason. Cleo's wedding sheets wouldn't be stained, not now. Because he was a selfish piece of shit. Because he'd wanted her and she'd let him…encouraged him, just about asked him for it. And he'd known. He'd _known_ it was her first time; he shouldn't have been staring dumbfounded at the evidence of that. He wondered if maybe _that_ was the reason he'd had the attack of conscience the first time they'd started down this road, and he'd stopped himself before he'd made the mistake he'd now irrevocably made. Because he was a complete fuck up, and she was practically goddamn royalty compared to him, and she deserved this to have happened better.

With _someone_ better. **Fuck**.

All these months, she could have been living her pampered, high-society life, and instead she was schlepping around the countryside at his heels. At first that annoyed the fuck out of him. Then it started to sort of…well, have an impact on him one way or the other. He wouldn't go as far as to say it impressed him or anything. But whenever he asked himself why she persisted in sticking with him, it was easy to answer these days. _Because he'd asked her to._ Even after the search for Azalea had finished, and they'd gone their separate ways…he'd come back. Back to Totokanta. He'd returned to collect her. And he didn't know why he had. She'd never asked, and he'd never explained. He guessed…well. He guessed he must have just gotten used to her being around, as asinine as that was.

And the worst part of all of this was that she wasn't going to be angry when she woke up. She had been herself last night, and he'd certainly been in his right mind as well. He couldn't blame anything other than his complete lapse of self control. All he'd had to admit was that he wasn't being truthful when he called her things. All he'd had to admit was that he was attracted to her, even a little. Ha, well, he'd certainly admitted that and more. More than he was ready to admit out loud. All in all, it was evident to him that the girl that lay asleep in that bed was attached to him in ways that made him nervous. Very nervous. And now there was guilt to add to that. And would there be guilt at all, if this were any other girl but Cleo? He pressed his palms into his eyes hard, seeing stars blossom there in his vision. Sometimes he was just so confused about this sort of thing. Every stupid, weird, unnecessary fight he'd ever had with Cleo suddenly seemed to make sense.

_Oh god, Cleo…don't be in love with me. _

"Master? Are you in there?"

He jerked open the door, angry now, just enough to see his apprentice's shadowed face, his clear green eyes and clean blonde hair. How old was the kid again? Sixteen or seventeen? Only about five years younger than him, but too often it seemed like far more than that for all the blind innocence held in that baby face expression. The kid looked at him a little timidly as he opened the door a crack and filled that space with his body, leaning his forearm on the doorframe.

"Majic. _What_ do you want?"

"I'm sorry to wake you so early…but…" Majic's brow furrowed a little as he paused mid-sentence. "Master, are you alright?"

As the kid probably expected, he glared at him. "No, I'm still fucking asleep because it's unnatural to be awake this goddamned early. What do you want?"

"Master, are you sure you're alright? Are you _injured_?" The kid's eyes were aimed below the level of his eyes. He'd answered the door bare chested, thinking nothing of it.

"Unh?" Orphen regarded his pupil, his irritation rising. "What…" He looked down at himself where the kid was staring, where four scarlet, raised wheals carved from his shoulder to his breastbone, and suddenly that image of Cleo in the flash of lightning sprung unbidden into his memory; reminded him of her flexing fingers raking across him in those last moments, and Orphen slapped his hand over the vicious abrasion. Now he frowned to fight the smirk that was sneaking up on him, despite his anxiety. To think he'd gotten out of bed for this shit. Before he could reply, Majic's eyes were widening either realization or admiration. Yeah, the kid was naïve, but he wasn't dumb. He must have been able to interpret his uncomfortable expression better than he would have thought.

"_Ohhh_. Oh, I'm _sorry_, Master…" The kid was blushing now. Yes, sometimes he seemed much younger than he was. In fact, in retrospect, he was sort of surprised Majic hadn't _heard_ them during the night. A vague feeling of embarrassment bubbled up, which was never a feeling he enjoyed. He watched the boy shift his weight a bit in apprehension, or maybe just a discreet attempt to catch a glimpse past him and into the room.

Orphen's patience was finished. He snapped at him. "Forget it. What. Do. You. Want?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean…its…it's just…_Cleo_…"

His heart leapt into his throat for the second that he'd thought he'd seen into the room, rather than that the reason he was knocking was _about_ Cleo. He kept his annoyed face, which wasn't difficult, considering. "What _about_ her?"

The kid fidgeted now. "Well…she was staying at the manor, you know, while we were in town… Mrs. Everlasting was here this morning looking for her. Apparently she ran out of the manor last night after they'd quarreled and she never returned…and no one has seen her...I told them I hadn't since yesterday morning when we arrived. But I thought I should ask if you'd seen her, Master…"

Majic's eyes were pissing him off, looking so worried when Cleo was right behind him, safe and peacefully sleeping. Like he'd ever let anything happen to her. He'd promised that, hadn't he? Except…you know, what he'd done to her himself. Maybe someone should have been protecting her from _him_. And why the hell was Majic so worried about her anyway? Orphen rubbed a hand over his face.

God, his mood was fucked up this morning. Why should he give a fuck if Majic was worried about Cleo, and more than that, why _shouldn't_ he be? After all, he had no way of knowing the truth. And if he didn't know where Cleo actually was, he'd probably be upset too. Not like he'd tell Majic that one way or the other.

He probably stared at the kid a little too long before replying. "No…haven't seen her since yesterday either. At the tavern. When we split up." Orphen fought the urge to continue talking, to cover his tracks. Funny how sometimes he could lie so easily, and that, inconveniently, this just wasn't one of those times. Already his answer was too long, he thought. Usually, he would have just said "no" and slammed the door.

"You sound worried, Master."

"No, I'm _tired_," he snapped, giving the kid a good glare. "I'm sure she's fine. That girl would probably gore any rapists that came after her, anyway. I can see them now, running away with their pants down, screaming in pain because a harmless looking little blonde ripped their balls clean off…poor guys…"

Majic looked vaguely scandalized, as usual. "Master…"

He wove a hand dismissively and cracked his neck, now back on a roll with the things that would usually come out of his mouth. He felt confident with that answer, despite his use of the word 'rapist' which had made him feel defensive. It would be just his luck if Cleo had woken up and heard that one. Majic seemed to get the picture: he hadn't seen her, and he didn't care anyway, so go away. He nodded vaguely and apologized again. "Okay…I'm sorry to have…woken you."

Orphen didn't even nod, just closed the door in the kid's face and then leaned his back against it once it was shut. And just as he'd feared, Cleo was sitting up in the bed, her arms circled around her knees, the sheet pulled up to cover her bare chest.

And of course, she'd heard the whole thing.


	5. Strength

**Chapter Five: Strength**

She rubbed the back of her wrist against one of her eyes and smiled meekly at him, and for some reason, he felt a little dizzy.

Given everything that had happened, he'd more than half expected her to launch out of the bed and angrily defend her femininity. Or maybe he just hoped she would, as it would give him a useful segue into an argument and a restoration of normalcy.

"Harmless _looking,_" she parroted lightly, resting her chin on the top of one of her steepled knees for a moment as she looked at him, frozen against the door. Then she squinted at the clock, frowned and flopped backwards into the bed. As it happened, she almost seemed to agree with his assessment of how completely she could take care of herself. Funny.

"I heard him," she said, muffled against the pillows. "Let them look. Come back to bed."

He had a strong urge to obey her, to crawl back into that warm bed, wrap his arms around her and sink back into the blissful sleep he'd been having before his apprentice's intrusion. In fact, it sounded wonderful, as he was exhausted; but now the morning he'd dreaded last night had come and he'd come abruptly face to face with reality, what they'd done, and the uncertain future. Of their travels. Of their…relationship. Of where he should go and where he would go, and how he'd be able to function as usual with her as part of it. But he just regarded her and no words formed in his mouth. He'd been having that trouble a lot lately.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" She gave a watery smile, her tone a little weak. "If you tell me you don't know why I'm here, I'm going to scream."

He shook his head at that, walking towards the bed, sitting on the edge and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, feeling awkward. "I wouldn't be stupid enough to try that again…"

"Good." She smiled up from the pillow, pulling the sheet up to her chin, then over her mouth and nose, leaving only her eyes peering over at him. "I'd hate to think you were masochistic enough to forget something like that." He watched her, the weight of anxiety cold in his chest and his heart beating harder than he would have liked. Yes, she was right. He'd have to be a fool. Which he was anyway. He didn't respond to that remark either.

"Quite the performance at the door."

Orphen felt a rush of blood to his face. Was he blushing? Wasn't he just mentally belittling Majic for just that, only minutes ago? He thanked the early morning shadow for obscuring his flushed skin and cleared his throat. "Yeah, well. I don't know if he bought it." He paused, trying to make an effort to keep things feeling normal, but of course the given topic made that impossible. "Hell. He probably heard us for himself and knew the whole time."

It was Cleo's turn to blush, her skin flushing pink even in the half light of the cloudy morning. There was a strange silence, her smile turning decidedly shy, which was very much not her usual reaction to something that embarrassed her. Dubiously watching her over his shoulder, he saw her eyes avoid his. Was she regretting it? And if so, did he care?

He answered that quickly. Yes. Yes, he cared if she regretted it. He wasn't sure why, but he cared.

And if she was regretting it, did that hurt him?

_What the fuck. Of course not. _

The silence stretched on another moment, before Cleo smashed it. "Boy, do you look guilty."

His eyes jumped to hers, almost startled by her accusation. "Huh? No…"

"Well, don't." She said, her eyes regaining their usual hardness and sitting up again with the sheet around her. Her posture was suddenly ramrod straight. Almost defensive. "I'm not having any stupid illusions about all this. It didn't mean anything. I know it's one of your favorite pastimes to blame yourself for things that aren't your fault, so stop before you even start. It was my fault, I know it was a purely physical thing, and that doesn't bother me. Okay?"

He blinked at her, a little numbed by her nonchalance. Was it really her fault? Even before she'd stripped in front of him, before she straddled him in that chair, he'd been tempted out of his mind a hundred other times. Even just her hot breath on his neck as he'd carried her up the stairs last night had evoked that aching urge. He'd always felt he had that particular problem on a tight leash; under strict control to the point he'd been very good at ignoring it as long as he could turn his attention elsewhere. Until that summer night a month before, anyway. That time, it had only taken her sudden presence in his bed, in a little nightgown no less, to seduce him into advancing on her suddenly. Was this really simply her fault for pushing him into a corner, and his ungovernable reaction as a healthy young male? Well. He supposed so. After all, he would most likely have not acted on those impulses again had she not confronted him in the way she had by refusing him his remarkable ability to ignore her.

At least, not that night. All in all, it wouldn't have been the first time he ignored the things she made him feel.

He tried to retain his usual composure, keeping his eyes away from her for a moment. If he looked at her, she might know that it was he who was having trouble knowing how to feel about it. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead she did.

"But you have to admit I proved my point." This was said in the most superior tone she could muster.

"Yes." He said flatly. "Yes, you certainly did."

"Do you regret it?"

She always had been candid. Skirting the subject wasn't her style.

"No." He replied to the floor. He wanted to ask if she did. But he didn't, which was typical. There were always things he wanted to say, but didn't. And he knew usually that was best, where Cleo was involved.

She nodded, assimilating that information. "What happens now?"

Well, there it was, the dreaded question out in the open now, floating in the rain thick air between them. He should have expected it. He kept staring at the wooden floor, as if the answer might suddenly present itself there and save him. It didn't. And again, they had come too far together and he was too deeply sunk into all of it now to just find a quick way out of the situation as he usually would have done. He could have insulted her in just the right way. Pissing off Cleo was something of an artform that he'd perfected over the months. But under the circumstances, saying the wrong thing would do more than just upset her. He could ruin everything that existed as normal in his life…if he hadn't already. And if there was anything Orphen hated, it was losing things. People. Much as he didn't need them.

"I don't know," he said cautiously. "We…just…keep doing what we always do. I guess."

"Until we get to Taflem."

He looked her sidelong. "…Yes."

She hesitated; then she talked to her hands which were now busy tangling around themselves against her knees. "You're taking Majic to the Tower, aren't you?"

Huh, maybe Cleo did hold things back once in awhile. He swallowed a little hard. _This_ certainly wasn't what he'd wanted to talk about right now.

There was a thick silence, he couldn't begin to imagine the expression of Cleo's face, but he couldn't bring himself to look at it either. 

He took a breath. "Yes, I'm taking Majic to the Tower. There are some things there he needs to study before he can progress any further."

"And you're going back too. Aren't you?"

He sighed slowly. He honestly hadn't decided yet. If they made it a condition of readmitting Majic after he'd run off the first time... Yeah. He hadn't decided. To begin with, it seemed Majic had trouble learning by the Tower's methods, which wasn't too much of a surprise, as he had as well. The truncated, more practical incantations had never worked well for him; something which Majic had probably adopted from learning more extended spells from him. Such wasn't the standard taught at the Tower except by Childman, who had used altered versions himself. Orphen disagreed with the Tower's habit of teaching practicality over efficiency, a conversation he'd had with Hartia on the multiple occasions he'd come with edicts from the elders, imploring the return of their prodigal successor of Razor's Edge. Even though he'd thrown that title back in their face, he knew…that title hadn't thrown him away.

After all, one cannot unlearn something. One cannot go back to the time before they knew it. No matter how much they want to.

But the memories. The lingering grudge was dying a very hard death. And he'd grown accustomed to doing things his own way. How much longer that was going to work out for him, he had no idea. If he wanted his apprentice to genuinely be a functioning sorcerer, he was going to need to endure concentration studies; something which just wasn't viable sitting in a campsite in the middle of nowhere.

But they were several days from Taflem, at least, and he'd welcomed the distraction of some time to think in Totokanta when the opportunity had presented itself. Funny, how a completely different problem had cropped up due to that decision to stop in the town for a couple days to sort it all out. Yeah, ha. Maybe that wasn't funny. Not the kind of funny he wanted to laugh at.

He couldn't answer that question and not make a liar out of himself one way or the other. And she didn't need to know that one of the determining factors in that decision would be that, should he return to the tower, Cleo would have to return to her previous occupations at their journey's end. She'd have to go back to whatever she'd been planning for her life until the day he'd interrupted it completely.

Suddenly his brow creased. "You fought with your mother last night?"

The abrupt tangent earned him a frustrated sigh. "Boy, you must think I'm really dense to be that easily distracted. I'm not a magpie blinking at shiny objects, Orphen. Don't change the subject."

"You changed the subject _first_…"

"Yeah, well, not really. _My_ question was related."

"Cleo, _dammit_…"

"I don't want to talk about it," she sniffed primly, tilting up her chin obstinately upward. "I just couldn't stand being there anymore, okay? That's all you need to know. I don't see why it's any of your business anyway."

He threw his hands up, "Alright, whatever, it's not. Why should I care?" he snapped, almost bitterly. If she didn't want to tell him why she'd stormed out of her house, sat down at the lake at her wit's end and sobbed to herself until he'd found her there…well, she could keep it to herself. Not like anything _important_ had happened because he'd found her out there and hadn't forced her to go back, of course not. Nothing that had changed everything, upset all his plans, confused the hell out of him and turned everything upside down, so no, why should he deserve any insight…

Orphen was so busy getting himself good and pissed off that it took a few seconds longer than it should have to realize she'd started crying again. The telltale shudder in her breathing caught his attention and he turned in time to catch her bringing her hands to her face. Cleo wasn't usually the type to cry, and now here she was, for the second time in as many days, breaking down. It was something of a surprise, insofar as he was ever really surprised about anything. Indeed, he was so caught off guard that he reacted on impulse, hesitating only a little against his decidedly fuzzy judgment.

Almost before he knew it, his arms were around her, and she didn't fight against him as he'd expected. Quite the contrary, she fell into him like the sea, tears shining on her cheeks, trying to control her sniffling against his shoulder. He smoothed her hair, setting his cheek against the top of her head, feeling awkward and hating the sensation violently. And hating even more that he had no one to blame but himself for getting into the situation at all. He struggled not to sound angry when he spoke.

"What's going on with you, Cleo?"

"E…" her breath caught as she tried to speak, and a pinched sob choked out against his shoulder. He winced, just a little. Hearing her cry like that, it triggered a weird desperation in him, made every muscle in his body tense. He couldn't remember if he'd felt like that last night at the lake or not. But he hated it, and he wanted her to stop.

"_Cleo_…"

"Even if you go back…muh-maybe it's better…'cause…" she blurted through her tears, shaking her head just a little and determinedly not looking up at him. "I don't…know if I can go with you anymore."

Orphen set his jaw against the nasty reaction that bubbled up in him, biting down a chain of obscenities that came to mind before any reasonable response. "What's this bullshit you're saying? Why not?"

He didn't think about how only a few months ago...this news would have made him laugh. Would have made him happy, even. Now it just made him angry. It seemed like everything was doing that this morning.

She whimpered, fighting the tears and failing. "Last night. My mother. She. Said…." Another shaking breath. "That…if I left again with you, I shouldn't bother trying to come back home anymore."

"Why would she say _that_ all of a sudden?" He half-snarled and felt her jump a little in response.

Cleo gave a little hiccupping sound, probably choking back another one of those horrible sobs, turning her face into his neck. "It's not….all of a sudden. We fight about it every time I come back. It's just…last night I said…something stupid…and she got really upset. She's ashamed of me, you know. My whole family is. Euh-even before I left with you." Suddenly she was crying harder and clutching him, which he sort of inexplicably liked and loathed at the same time. "I've never been any good at acting how I'm supposed to…"

"And just how are you supposed to act?" he spat. He hated _this_.

"You know...like perfect Mariabella. Mariabella who learned dance and instead of fencing. Mariabella who never…you know…" she sniffed and cleared her throat, shaking her head a little. "Never talks loudly or says anything out of turn or complains about anything even if she should…she goes along with everything that's expected of her. She covers her mouth when she laughs. Uses the right goddamn spoon for everything. Never swears. Never gets angry. She's a perfect Everlasting. And I'm just an…embarrassment."

When Cleo stopped talking, there was the only sound of the morning rain on the window and her soft, hitched breath. The sheet around her had slipped down at some point, leaving her pressed bare against him as she sniffled, afraid to move, afraid to look up, trapped by fear and the feel of his fingers trailing lightly down her spine.

He didn't say anything. Maybe it had been a little much to take in all at once. Or maybe sitting here, half nude, in each other's arms, talking and not arguing…maybe it just felt a little weird. Strange, though, it didn't feel as weird as he would have thought.

But still, he didn't reply. So she kept talking.

"Everywhere I go, I'm just... I can't do anything like anyone wants me to. Even to you and Majic…I've been nothing but in the way…just a spoiled rich girl who doesn't know how to do anything except complain when things get tough and cause more trouble…but I bet you didn't know," she forced a tearful, self-deprecating wheeze of a laugh. "…that I'm not even good at being a spoiled rich girl…"

Funny. As she tore herself apart, she was inadvertently explaining so many things about herself to the point it had utterly doused his anger response and left him floundering. He didn't want to hear any more of this. He considered telling her to shut up, but of course she wouldn't anyway; she never did. So he pulled back from her enough to grab her chin and pull it up.

He kissed her. And she shut up. Immediately. Bloody amazing.

Her lips were salty and after a tense moment, they yielded easily under his, her head tilting and returning the gesture as slowly and gently as he was giving it. And before he could get carried away, he broke away, leaving her winded, her teary eyes opening to look up at him, their sky blue almost translucent in the early morning light, and that familiar restless, panicked feeling snuck up on him viciously.

But. She had stopped crying for the moment, which was, you know, an improvement.

"Christ." He rasped, his eyes flickering over her face, a little incredulous. "Don't tell me _that's_ all it would have taken to shut you up all those times…."

She looked dazed, and smiled timidly with an almost embarrassed little snort. "Well, it wouldn't work for everybody…"

"Yeah well," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her again. "It had better not."

Well. He certainly hadn't meant to say _that_. It had just tumbled out of his mouth before he'd had a chance to think about it. Just what the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean? Either way, it didn't seem to make much of a difference to Cleo, all the drama regarding her mother's ultimatum immediately burned away in the heat of a kiss. She relaxed against him, pliant under his ministrations until he pulled back again, breathless, and leaned his forehead against hers.

"If it makes you feel better," he said gruffly, feeling ridiculous and delirious, and swept her hair away from her face to gather it at her neck and smooth it down. "…I think you are fucking _fantastic_ at being a spoiled rotten rich brat…"

Immediately she struggled against him in an exaggerated protest, and he caught her arms against her sides, holding her while she squirmed. And he laughed. Just a tiny, tired sounding chuckle, muffled in the back of his throat, but it was enough of a foreign sound for Cleo to look up at him with her bright teary eyes, eyelashes wet. It seemed the only time she'd ever heard him laugh was in a malicious or sarcastic manner; usually at an enemy's expense or foolishness. She meant to say something, but before she could comment, she was distracted by the crimson welts she'd left scratched across his chest in the middle of the night: unmistakable evidence of their torrid lovemaking.

"Oh," she said, her fingers running lightly across the abrasions. "God, I clawed you good."

"Seems only fair…" he muttered distractedly. Between her fingers running across his skin, the press of her bare flesh, and the aftereffects of kissing her, he strained to remember the reason she'd begun to cry. "…what did you say to piss off your mom like that?"

She pushed off him a little, looking up at him again in surprise, affording Orphen a lovely, very distracting view with the sheet that had covered her almost entirely pushed away by now. He half wondered if she'd done it on purpose. "Huh?"

His eyes wandered down, but he didn't lose his train of thought. "You told me it was something you said that triggered the big blow-up with your mother. What did you say?"

"Ah…" she snatched up the sheet to cover herself just enough, sliding to the edge of the bed while her eyes scanned the wooden floor for her rumpled garments. "Well…I don't remember…exactly…" she said, her bare legs swiftly making an appearance from beneath the sheet to swing over the edge of the bed. She moved forward, as though she meant to stand, and he saw her wince. He could imagine why. A muscle in his jaw twitched with the effort it took not to ask her if it still hurt.

Her eyes swept across the floor, searching for her clothes. For someone who'd been urging him moments ago to get back into bed with her, she suddenly seemed rather intent on making a quick exit. Which seemed decidedly odd.

"Don't want to talk about that, either, I suppose…" he intoned dryly.

She practically jumped at that accusation, her mouth opened to reply when another knock shook the door, and Orphen's attention was drawn to the door in disgust.

"Son of a bitch…" he muttered, standing up again, his interest momentarily diverted away from her so that he missed Cleo's virtual sigh of relief. With his back turned, she snuck out from under the sheet to grab at the pile of her damp clothing, though her undergarments were elsewhere in the room. She spotted her brassiere at the foot of the armchair beside the window, where she'd dropped it. Her panties were anyone's guess. Orphen had removed those himself. Remembering it, she felt a shiver slither down her back but froze at the sound of the door creaking open. As before, Orphen blocked the view into the room from whoever was in the hallway; the voice that filtered through the crack wasn't unexpected.

"Master…I'm…**sorry** to bother you again…but I thought you'd want to see…" Majic's voice was a little more shrill than usual. Poor kid, he had no idea he was fueling the fire.

"See _what_?" Orphen's mood was obviously barreling downhill, from the sound of his voice. It would be better she got out of there before the tension came to a head. It looked like poor Majic would bear the weight of his frustration, which was not unusual. Cleo struggled quietly to button her blouse and wriggle into her skirt as soundlessly as possible, steadfastly keeping her emotions in check and ignoring the dull pain that burned low in her abdomen. In dressing, she'd caught sight of the bloodstains on the sheets and felt a hot charge in her sinuses, despite her best efforts. She wasn't even entirely sure why. Maybe she'd just had unrealistic hopes…she should have known better when she'd chosen who to give herself to.

And what would Orphen think?

She swallowed her emotion, determined not to cry again and pulled the top sheet over the bed to cover the rusty spots. Orphen was already closing the door, scowling as he turned toward her. He raised his eyebrows to find her perched on the end of the bed, zipping up her brown riding boots. She looked up at him expectantly, the grey morning light silhouetting her against the window.

"Have to go?" she asked quietly.

"Apparently…" he groused, testing his draped shirt for dryness. "Looks like some kind of battle or something, according to Majic. _Just_ what I need."

She was standing up, moving towards him. "Guess I should take the opportunity while everyone's distracted with that to sneak back…" she was saying, combing her hair with her fingers, seeming very casual despite how her voice wavered.

"You don't want to wait until I leave?" he pulled the shirt over his head. "They'll be waiting out front."

"I'm not going out the front."

He studied her a second, the silence underlain with the subliminal click of the rain picking up on the window. Her eyes were red from crying, her clothes were wrinkled beyond belief, her hair was limp and tangled and oh god, something was really wrong with him. He couldn't think of a single scathing remark about her disheveled appearance that he could throw at her to help bring them back to the real world. In fact…she looked…

"You're really going back?" he asked, throat tight. …_Gorgeous_.

"Have to," she said bluntly, folding her arms, looking at the door. "I left Reiki and all my things. No one's going to _bar me_ from leaving."

"So, you'll just go against your mother's demands? Let her disown you or whatever? Didn't you say…"

"I suppose." She said, attempting a superior tone. "What choice have I, really?"

"Well…" Seemed like she had every choice in the world to him. But he'd been wrong before.

Her eyes flicked back to him, finally looking angry. "The things my mother wants for me…aren't because she wants me to have them. It's for her. She could care less that I don't want to marry some wealthy asshole I don't know and brainlessly pop out a bunch of kids and smile at dinner parties and do needlepoint for the rest of my life. I've gone this long avoiding that." She forced a breathy little laugh. "Can you imagine, _me_…" She shook her head, as though to clear the thought away before she even finished it. "When are we leaving?"

Orphen stared, shrugging on his vest. What a mess. He raised his eyebrows. Last he'd heard there was some question about whether she would be able to come along, but seemed to have decided rather quickly. He wanted to ask why. But didn't. "Well, I'd planned on tomorrow…but depending on what's going on out there…"

"Then we can leave today?"

"Guess we'll…have to."

She smiled sunnily, but her eyes weren't in it. "Perfect. I'll meet you guys out front of the tavern then. In two hours."

Before he could contest or agree, she'd shifted her weight toward him as though she meant to embrace him, then seemed to think better of it and snuck out the door like a little blonde ghost, closing it soundlessly behind her. And it was one, two, three seconds before all of Cleo was out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a strange feeling of disappointment.

In her rush to vacate, she'd left without a word more about what had happened between them the night before. He didn't like the feeling that the whole thing bothered him more than it seemed to bother her. Or that their tryst had set off red flags and alarms in his subconscious to warn him that he was straying much too far over the borders he'd set for himself long ago, much as he wanted to deny that. Ah yes, that nightmare was warning him. He was…feeling…far too much and he just wasn't fucking allowed that luxury. After all, all he ever did was hurt and betray others that relied on him. And he owed his emotional allegiance elsewhere. Who better to come in a dream and remind him of _that_?

Cleo was lying. Despite her blasé assessment of the situation, what had happened between them had definitely meant something. To her. Maybe even to him, a little. And that fucking pissed him off. In fact, he felt a little lightheaded from the rush of temper that went with that realization.

Or maybe his nerves were just finally catching up with him.

He spent about ten more seconds staring dolefully at the closed door before he slunk into the bathroom like a kicked dog, hunched over the wide bowl of the washbasin, and threw up.


	6. The Chariot

**Chapter Six: The Chariot**

What he hadn't expected was all the smoke. If Meverlenst wasn't burnt to the ground already, it was evident (even from as far away as Totokanta) that it was in the cards for the Imperial City. The radiance of the flames reflected up against the low, gauzy rainclouds on the eastern horizon like a blazing sunset on a lake, the mountain peaks obscured by black smoke. It was difficult to fathom a disaster of such proportions occurring in the city of the Thirteen Angels, and if the court had any firepower left after this holocaust, the damages would be repaid in blood.

Of that, there could be little doubt.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the kid had been right to double back against his better judgment, despite the timing being about the worst he could imagine. Headed to Taflem as they were, where another branch of the oligarchic government held sway at the Tower of Kiba, their course for travel and their objectives could be severely altered by the Tower going to war in defense of another branch of the Federation. No doubt the Kimurak Church would be right behind them in battle. It had been more than a hundred years since the Sand War when the Church's forces had razed Taflem to the ground, but the Church, a sanguinary institution if there ever was one, (despite its pious faith in the Gods of the Giant's Continent) was deeply loyal to the federation inasmuch as it was quick to dispatch its martial forces in defense of its hard won allies. Whatever faction of anti-imperialists had terrorized Meverlenst, the seat of the aristocracy as well as the imperial court, could not have intended to raise the ire of the entire triumvirate. It would be like prodding a beast through the bars of an unlocked gate: pure foolishness.

What any man would have to gain by torching Meverlenst, Orphen had no idea. He'd never understood the purpose of insurgency, particularly when it seemed so foolhardy and would likely accomplish very little. Things like this were best stayed out of, in his opinion. There was no money to be made in it, to begin with, but more than that, if war was on the horizon, the Tower would be after him again to return. With the most recent turn of events, it certainly didn't make that prospect any more attractive, or the choice any easier to make.

But since when had his life ever played out simply? Right. Never.

It was a miserable sight, the rain and the corona of the flames along the rim of the mountains; the citizens of Totokanta all out in the early morning mist with their eyes turned east in fear. Orphen wound his arms tighter in the wool folds of his cloak, the hood doing nothing to shield his face from the westward slanting raindrops as he squinted thoughtfully at the shifting columns of smoke. Majic, in his sodden poncho, watched his Master apprehensively for a reaction. Presumably the kid was worried this hadn't warranted disturbing his…sleep. Which, for about the first time ever, it definitely was. Particularly since he hadn't been asleep by the time Majic had come knocking the second time. Nevertheless.

"…we should probably get out of Totokanta," he finally said.

"You think so? …Should I warn my father…?"

Orphen shrugged a little, giving his apprentice a sidelong glance. "Not sure what more warning somebody could _want_... but if we want to avoid the bulk of the recruiting efforts, we should try to make it to get as far away from the conflict as possible. "

"Recruiting?"

"I'd hoped to avoid the coast, but we'd better head north to Alenhatan and keep as far west as we can." He turned his eyes back to the Lin Tavern, absorbed in the escape plan. "It's the quicker way, in any case."

"Wait, Master…what do you mean 'recruiting efforts'?"

He sighed. "Recruiting for battle, Majic. If Meverlenst was attacked, there's going to be a huge backlash." Orphen scowled at the boy, his blue poncho as dripping wet as his wheat colored hair, eyes vacant of any understanding. Typical. He sneered a little, wiping the rain out of his eyes in exasperation. "Nobody sets fire to the Capital without having to answer at least to the Imperial Parliament, the Tower Elders _and_ the Kimurak-fucking-Church. It's a direct attempt on the Emperor and every noble house with any kind of power."

Majic's eyes were huge. He seemed to think about that for a second. "You think they'll attack here?"

"Who knows, there's no noble houses here, if that's their objective." he started walking quickly toward the tavern, his boots squelching in the mud. "But I don't want to be here when representatives from either side start flooding in. Pack your things up, Majic. I know we talked about leaving tomorrow…but I think it would be better to leave now."

"Now? But Master…what about Cleo?" He was sloshing behind him now.

Ah, a stab to the heart. He was grateful for the hood of his cloak or the kid would've seen that flinch. Just when he'd successfully put her out of his mind for the moment. "What about her?"

"She's missing…her mother, remember? I did tell you. I don't know if they've found her. We can't just leave without Cleo. Do you really think she's alright?"

"'Course," he said sharply. "Why wouldn't she be?"

Majic seemed to choose his next words carefully. He stopped walking and everything. "But…what….if she's not?"

Orphen swung around quickly, wanting with all his soul to lash out at Majic for continuing to harp on a subject he just _didn't_ want to think about for the time being. He had to remind himself that there _should_ be no reason to berate Majic simply for being worried about Cleo. After all…if he hadn't known (very well) where she'd been all night and where she was now, they'd probably be out looking for her, and he'd be practicing a couple snide remarks in his head to use when they finally found her so he wouldn't have to look or feel relived. _Despite_ his comment earlier on how capable Cleo was of defending herself, he wasn't entirely confident she'd be able to protect herself quite as thoroughly as he'd said.

And if something happened to her…

As a personal compromise, he kept his tone even and as genial as he could really muster, but didn't budge on his position. Like hell he'd go knocking on the front door of Everlasting Manor knowing how he was likely to be received there. And he'd just as soon avoid the drama. "Listen. If she hasn't turned up by the time we're all set to head out, we'll take a look around for her and go from there. I'll bet you she's just hiding around that goddamned castle they call a house just to freak out her Mom. You know what a pill she is. You're just getting yourself worked up."

"But, Master, you just said yourself they might attack here if their objective was to injure influential noble houses."

Orphen blinked at him, the relevance of that tangent lost on him. "No, I didn't. I said there would be no reason to attack Totokanta…"

"But Master, the _Everlasting House_…"

What the hell, if he heard one more freaking "But Master", he was going to whack that kid. "The Everlastings aren't part of the Parliament, are they? How could they be…Tist—"

"Cleo's father, he was one of the Lords of the Upper Parliament up until he died…but that was awhile ago now…"

"Really." He blinked. He hadn't known that. Not that it surprised him. Nothing could surprise him this morning. "What was he, like a Duke or something?"

Majic gave a little shrug. "Ah, I can't remember…"

He thought about that a little more. "How did her father die, anyway?"

Now Majic was starting to look a little frazzled. "I don't know; I…think it was sudden. I remember my father telling me about it….but, It was years ago, and Cleo wasn't around at the time. Master…don't you think that, just in case, we should make sure…"

Orphen was already ahead of him now. They might have no choice but to visit The Everlasting estate. And if Cleo wasn't being allowed to leave now, she certainly would be kept back by her mother with a continental conflict looming on the horizon like a storm front. He didn't even want to think about how that conversation would go, with his apprehension running high already.

Right. And he wasn't going to. Not right now.

"She'll be here to meet us," he snapped, turning back and continuing toward the Inn.

"How do you know? She doesn't even know we're _leaving yet_."

He couldn't reach that door fast enough. It would just be better to sit it out and wait for her to show up, so they could all get the hell out of here. Away from the smoke and glow of political flames, away from the potential for old faces from the Tower to be crawling all over him, and away from Cleo's noble goddamned house. Much as it might be safer to leave her, it just wasn't an option now if she was leaving again against her mother's demand. Whatever she'd said to trigger that ultimatum from Tistiny Everlasting, who had seemed a generally level headed woman to him the brief times he had met her, he couldn't _begin_ to guess, but of course, Cleo had a way of wording things just so. Nevertheless, she had certainly done her damnedest to evade answering that question when he'd asked it of her. Enough that his innate paranoia told him it must have had something to do with him. Orphen was quickly descending into a black mood, and Majic's flapping around like a chicken over Cleo wasn't doing much to remedy that. He reached the front step and scraped his boots off.

"She'll be here or I'll find her. We're not leaving without her, so fucking switch off already." He whipped off his wet cloak and slammed the door behind him, leaving his apprentice standing perplexed, stung and soaked through in the grey morning drizzle.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Cleo sunk deep into the steaming water, tilted her head back against the porcelain lip of the tub, and slowly exhaled. The heat leeched into her muscles, soothing the dull, foreign-feeling ache that cramped low in her abdomen. For a long time she just lay watching the wavering patterns of light reflecting off the swaying surface of the bathwater and dancing on the ceiling, lost in her thoughts, absently running her fingers through the long floating ends of her hair.

It had been remarkably easy to sneak back into the manor, what with the entire household out searching Totokanta for her. She'd slipped back into her bedroom undetected, with the exception of a small, indigo wolf-like cub that wound around her ankles frantically the moment she'd closed the door. She'd picked up the young deep dragon with a tired laugh and cradled him against her chest, taking comfort in the familiarity. Reiki, after his initial muzzling and licking of her nose, had made a show about sniffing her curiously before looking up at her with questioning eyes, and Cleo's affectionate smile faded a bit.

"Too smart for your own good, little one," she'd said flatly, bending to set him gently back down on the carpet. "I know who you smell, don't look at me like that."

Even now, Reiki was curled up on the sink, watching her soak. If she kept her word, it would be a long time until the next long, luxurious bath; and while she was determined to enjoy it, predictably, there were too many things on her mind to truly relax. Her mind was rattling with images and recalled sensations, and all the emotions both evoked.

After they'd made love the second time, she'd lain awake beside him for what felt like hours, thinking, listening, wondering what had awakened him so abruptly. He'd been obviously shaken, and had accepted her apprehensive attempts at comfort rather without complaint, which had been a surprise. Their resulting union had felt very different from their first, and not purely in the physical sense. The first time had been frenetic, almost rough. Everything she'd imagined and more. But in the darkness of the room after Orphen's sudden jolt awake, she'd been stunned by the gentle, slow motion pace; the intimate tangle of his fingers woven with hers even after he'd drifted back to sleep, the almost possessive feeling of the kiss he'd dropped on her shoulder before he'd done so. Almost like a goodnight kiss. Yes, if she hadn't known better…she might have thought…

Cleo squeezed her eyes shut hard, forcing those thoughts away before she finished. She'd promised she'd have no illusions, and that was just what she'd intended to do. She wanted to put it all out of her mind entirely, and instead, she heard her mother's words ringing in her head like a prophecy.

"_Is that so? Then, tell me Cleo, would you even make yourself a whore for him if he asked it of you?"_

Yes. She would. She had. At the time, she'd been so livid at the assault to her morality; so determined to set her mother straight on why she wanted no part of the debutante life she'd had been so diligently planning since before Cleo'd even been able to speak, that she'd blurted out the horrible truth that sent her into a frenzy of hysterical finger pointing, insults, and ultimatums:

"_Only because I love him, Mother!" _

Oh, how she wished she hadn't said that. She'd meant it as a defense to her virtue, that if she would do such a thing it was only because he so completely had her heart. It was a foolish impulse, but it wasn't the first time her mouth had outrun her head. Her mother's following tirade had forbade her from leaving again with that charlatan who had so blinded and used her, who would provide her no stability; she wouldn't allow her childish and foolish whims destroy her chance for a comfortable and secure future, wouldn't allow her daughter to live the life of a stray cat on the run. Apparently, she'd put up with the entire farce for an admirable amount of time and would tolerate it no further after hearing talk like this. To say nothing of the fact that she was endangering the endurance and pride of the precious Everlasting name, nor the fact that she was apparently too young and too stupid to know what love was or to recognize the things that were more important than that fanciful and utterly impractical concept. Of course, she hadn't neglected to beg the question if this vagabond, rogue sorcerer was in love with _her_ as well. To which Cleo could only flush in shame and storm out of the house in response, furious with her mother. Furious with that question. Furious with her sister for being so perfect by comparison. Furious with her father for dying and leaving her completely at the mercy of her mother's fanciful plans. And furious, absolutely livid at Orphen for not caring one way or the other.

Cleo sank deeper into the water, sliding until her chin dipped under the surface. She breathed deep and slid under, curling forward and hugging her legs, the hot water tingling over her scalp and face as she lay there in the quiet hiss of muffled, watery silence. The boiling emotions and the almost embryonic stasis under the bathwater were a striking dichotomy, like a hurricane in reverse, a centered chaos surrounded by a capsule of perfect calm. But that humming quiet only brought all that anger and love and fear into such sharp focus that she felt the prick of new tears blossoming under her eyelids.

She'd gone and done the worst possible thing she could. Now that she'd been with him, that marvelous, terrible ecstasy of loving him had only intensified and had only cruelly revealed to her what it would be like if he loved her too. It was like a starving man watching a feast through a window.

And she _was_ starving. Just this taste had only made wanting him so much more painful.

Hugging her thighs to her chest, Cleo squeezed her closed eyes more tightly shut against the gathering tears, and in a fountain of bubbles from her mouth, screamed.

She'd wanted to kiss him goodbye. She'd said she would meet him and Majic at the tavern, but she knew she couldn't. She'd only told him so, pretended she would…to make it easier. If she'd admitted it was probably the last time she'd ever see him…she would have cried again, sobbed and clung to him like a lost child and reminded him of every reason why he couldn't stand her.

But still, she'd wanted to kiss him goodbye. She'd intended to, but stopped when their eyes had met. Normally he had a fairly placid expression that varied in degrees between apathy and anger, rarely much else. But whatever it was she'd seen on his face, in his eyes, made her shy away. She couldn't say at the time what it was. But under the bathwater with her eyes stinging and her lungs burning, everything was a little more clear.

Fear. That's what she'd seen. She couldn't imagine why, but he'd looked afraid of something.

Finally she brought her shoulders up and lifted her head out of the water, panting from the air depravation, her hair a sopping blonde curtain hanging around her face that disappeared in a pale cloud under the water. Reiki whined from his perch on the sink.

Could this constant heartache really be less misery than the high society coma her mother had planned for her? Was she really making the best decision to never see him again and condemn herself to the misery of being both without him and being married off to some wealthy, ridiculous, self-important stranger?

After all, she had told herself for so long that all she'd wanted was to be close to him. If there had been any truth in those pacifications, she was just betraying herself by not returning now. Her mother's demands be damned.

Really. She'd never been any good at doing what she was told.

Cleo tilted her head and eyed the clock. 8:43 am. She was already late. If she was going to change her mind and leave with him after all, she had to make a choice. And make it quickly.

Which was, fortunately, something she'd _always_ been good at.

She inhaled deeply, and then snatched a shampoo bottle off the marble ledge. She wasn't leaving without actually bathing first. And he wouldn't _dare_ leave without her…

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

She was late. He stared out the rain pearled window of his inn room, vexed. While rarely punctual, this was one situation where he'd thought she would scramble to avoid any familial crossfire. She'd been sure no one would physically restrain her from leaving, but with the smoke of the burning capital darkening the skyline and the time ticking ever later, it occurred to him that she may have been incorrect in her ever superior assumptions.

Wouldn't be the first time.

He glanced around the room restlessly, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded. He kept his eyes off the bed. He didn't want to think about that right now.

He didn't _want_ to. But it was difficult, sitting there, waiting for her to show up out front. How could he not think about it? After the last almost two years of dealing with her, travelling with her, fighting with her, _wanting_ her, all of it had so suddenly come to a culmination only hours ago. He knew at the time it was a mistake, but he'd done nothing to stop it. Losing control of himself like that wasn't a feeling he particularly savored, and neither was the guilt that went along with it. He'd been like an animal, helpless to stop himself. Even now, it felt like some bizarre dream he was having trouble shaking.

But it wasn't. He'd had her. _Twice_. But it wouldn't…_couldn't_ happen again. If they were to go on as always, things just couldn't be this way. His ever-teetering sanity was hanging in the balance. She apparently had no expectations, and would be satisfied to let things lie as they were. She'd gotten up and left with little fanfare. So there was no reason to think about it any further. No reason to worry or analyze it, she'd said as much _herself_, despite what it may or may not have meant. To anyone.

Yes, more importantly, if she didn't show up soon, what was the plan? Certainly they couldn't leave without her. Especially if…something _had_ happened to her on the way back. Now that Majic had planted that goddamn seed, it was festering in him.

He stood up quickly from the chair, taking a step forward and kicking a scrap of cloth on the floor, a flash of white fabric against the raw wooden floorboards caught his attention.

It was Cleo's brassiere, left discarded at the foot of the armchair_. Oh yes, how could he forget? _

He bent quickly and plucked it up from the floor, fully intending on launching it angrily into the corner and instead stood staring at the offending garment and turning it over in his hands, glaring at it until a distinct, sharp click jerked his attention back to the window.

And there she was, standing below with Reiki held up under her plum colored cloak to protect him from the rain, as if he needed it. She was looking up at the window like she could see him standing there; giving him an absurd prickle of paranoia. She waited a moment before bending over and seeming to pick at the ground before straightening up, bringing her arm back and quickly forward. The action was accompanied by another percussive tick, stone deflecting off the window pane. She was throwing pebbles at the window, as though she thought he might be asleep. As though he _could_. Didn't she know what was going on out there? She was such an idiot sometimes.

He watched her for another moment vacantly. She swayed back and forth a little, hefting Reiki with one hand up under her chin before her attention dropped from the window, and a figure in blue ran out to meet her and threw its arms around her. Majic.

Balling up and pocketing the incriminating garment, he swept up his pack and, with a last lingering glance at the bed, started down the narrow hallway.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

"Cleo!"

Her eyes fell from the window, to find a sodden Majic Lin charging at her, relief tangible on his face. She gave him a casual wave before he was embracing her enthusiastically, crushing Reiki against her in the process.

"Ew, Majic, you're soaked, cut it out!"

"Where've you been? Your mother was here earlier, she was frantic! No one'd seen you!"

She shook him off, waving her hand at him. "Oh please. My mother, _frantic_, that's a new one."

The boy still had a fistful of her cloak, his eyes full of that familiar determined innocence they so often were. Amazing the boy's good-for-nothing teacher hadn't rubbed off on him much at all. "Cleo, she was! She said you stormed out of your house last night and didn't return. I was worried something had happened to you!"

"In Totokanta? Majic, of all places, seriously. You act like it's the crime capital of Kiesalhima; I've run around here by myself for my whole life. What, you've never run out on your Dad just to rile him up?" She shook her arm to loosen his grip on her.

"No!" he breathed, as if it were unimaginable. Shocking. "Cleo, you had to have noticed the sky. Can't you smell the smoke? Master told me that Meverlenst is being attacked. You never know who might be around at a time like this…you should go tell your mother you're alright!"

She scowled at the word _Master_, completely disregarding the advice. "He did, did he? How the hell does he know that?"

"Well, that's the…seat of the Aristocracy and the court…an attack…"

"Ugh, I'm losing feeling in my shoulder…" She cut his explanation short, shrugging off her newly replenished pack and dropping it into his arms. "I don't see what the big deal is. We're not headed that way, anyway." As long as they were headed out of the city before she lost her nerve to leave it at all, it didn't matter to her which way they went. But away from the burning capital seemed like a better option, of course.

Majic hefted her pack onto his shoulder without complaint and she felt the corner of her mouth pull up in admiration. Really, if only all boys were so easy to train. Majic was going to make some girl a wonderful husband some day; he was wasting himself trying to become a sorcerer. It wouldn't hurt to mention _that_ to his worthless master, either…

"We don't have to be headed that way for it to make further travel north tremendously fucking inconvenient." And speaking of his master…from the edge of her vision she saw the black swoop of his cloak in the rain as he approached, and damned her heart for fluttering ridiculously like that when she heard that distinctive gunshot of a voice.

She turned to glower at him with a spiteful smirk. "Ah, the impeccable manners."

"Ah, the feminine charm," he shot back.

They held a blazing glare for a little longer than felt usual, and Majic sighed audibly.

"Master…are we going?"

"Now that _someone_ has deigned to show up, yeah. Tell your old man that we're out of here." Finally, Orphen looked away and she relaxed a fraction, the invisible grip loosening around her throat.

Majic nodded quickly and waddled off through the mud with Cleo's pack on his back. He disappeared up the wooden the steps into the Tavern, leaving them standing in the rain together in a long, stifling silence thick with the acrid smell of smoke. Orphen watched the bright glow on the horizon intently as the minutes dragged on, before he finally spoke.

"What kept you?" He didn't look at her. The air was getting heavier. Maybe she was just imagining it, but it felt like it was getting harder to breathe. Maybe it was just the smoke.

She hesitated. "I had to bathe…I was a mess." She occupied her hands with stroking under Reiki's chin gently, turning her full attention to the little pup.

If he'd thought anything of it, he didn't say so. He turned his eyes to her and blinked, but she didn't look up. "And your mother…?" he prompted. She could hear his eyebrow go up just by the tone of his voice.

"She wasn't there. Nobody was there."

Before she could elaborate, Majic had appeared out on the step and headed toward them, a dry cape in place of his soaked blue poncho and the mountain of travelling supplies heaped on his back. He waded haltingly toward them, each step sinking heavily into the wet ground under the weight of the luggage.

Before Majic reached earshot, Orphen's voice dropped low and he turned to her. "Listen…" he said.

Cleo looked up at him quickly in response, so fast the hood of her cloak fell back and her hair caught the breeze, fluttering out around her face like a flaxen flag. "I'm not going back there," she interrupted fiercely, loud enough for Majic to hear. "If that's what you're going to say, I don't want to hear it, Orphen."

And somehow, when she said his name, his eyes fell involuntarily to her mouth; never so much had that word not sounded like his name. He felt the strangest urge to correct her.

But before he could reply or say anything, she'd already walked away, flounced up on Majic and plucked her pack off of his shoulder. "Give that to me, you're doing to drop it straining around in the mud like that."

"Thank you, Cleo!"

"So which way?"

"Ah, North…right Master?" Majic called.

"Which way, Orphen?"

_That's not my goddamn name. Say it right. Say…_

"Master?"

"North." He barked, distracted, turning his eyes east and stalking past both of them toward the road. Past Majic so he didn't have to watch him slop through the mud with his huge pack, and past Cleo so he just didn't have to look at her at all. Nothing good would come of it, already he was walking a precarious edge of his ever-teetering grasp of reality and civility, and he didn't need any salt rubbed into that particular wound just now. He was facing a hell of a trip north, a charged political climate, a possibly dangerous journey, and a pending arrival at the happiest place on the continent: the Tower of Kiba, who'd likely be pleased at this point to see him, for all the wrong reasons. This coupled with no apparent break in the rain in sight, peak travelling conditions to be sure, and a hell of a personal situation that he'd fallen into of his own free will and that, much as he wanted to, he couldn't blame on anyone but himself.

Thirty miserable seconds alone with her in a so-called normal environment had confirmed a fear that had been squeezing in his chest since he'd woken up that morning; since he'd looked down at her asleep beside him, since she'd begun to cry and he'd decided to kiss her instead of kick her the fuck out of his room.

That now, everything was different. That going back wasn't even viable.

And that keeping his goddamn hands off her was going to be _so_ _much harder _than he thought.


	7. Temperance

**Chapter Seven: Temperance**

Through the rain and the mud, three days felt like a hundred years. He'd been told by numerous people in his life that he was of an utterly one track mind, and he'd never been one to contest that assessment. When something manifested itself in his head, he became obsessed with it. Thinking of anything else, planning anything else, it was all fruitless until his fixation was either resolved or exhausted.

And for days, his thoughts had duly floated between two subjects vying for his obsessive attention. Already they'd had a long detour around an encampment of federal soldiers sent by God-knew-who simply to avoid the potential mess. He had a lot to wonder about when it came to the fires in Meverlenst, a lot of very likely scenarios, but little that was known and even less to really go on. They wouldn't receive any new reports until they reached Alenhatan; and how that might affect the plans to make a visit to the Tower remained to be seen. And so during those long interims of travel with his information limited as it was; instead of strategizing, his puerile brain was busying itself by dredging up images and memories of Cleo that he didn't even know he had.

Why, he didn't know. Why he did anything sometimes, he didn't know.

"_Look at this! Amazing!"_ She was flapping a giant leaf around using both arms to wave it, impressed by its size and the amount of air it moved. She was laughing in the sunlight. She was spinning with her arms spread in a field of columbines. She was laying on her side in the grass, arm curled under her head. She was standing with her back against a pillar while it rained.

She was looking up at him defiantly, tears shining in her eyes, her balled fists shaking with rage instead of fear. _"What, are you going to hit me?"_

Her face, lit up bright by the coastal sunset, her brow pinched. He'd asked her to promise him. She hadn't.

Her hands snatching his, she was asking him to come back with her. The creak of her wet orange raincoat as he tried to pull away, and demanded she do so. Her voice had been so small, delicate like snowflakes. _"Not gonna."_

He'd tried ripping his hand out of her grip. He'd told her that no one was more important to him than Azalea, despite the truth about the sort of person she was. The truth was, he'd really known it all along. He'd said it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but Azalea.

And her hands had abruptly released him. He'd stalked away, leaving her behind.

Her little hands curled around the jewel and the bracelet as she handed them to him, her eyes downcast. _"…you won't die…Orphen, you won't die, right?"_

God. He was so stupid. How could he have missed it? All those stupid fights, all her mood swings, all the times she'd run off for no reason. Somehow, the more obvious it became, the more he felt twisted inside. Weird. Defensive. Confused. Protective. Angry. Violent.

Because it was just such a stupid thing to do. The dumbest thing he'd ever heard of, probably. Who in their right fucking mind would be in love with him? _Him_. Of all people she could choose. She could be an idiot sometimes, but he'd never thought she was really that brainless.

Yes. He blamed his obsessive streak for always being too focused on everything else. That's why it had never really occurred to him. Or maybe it was just so unthinkable he'd never even thought of it. He'd never been good with people to begin with, and even less been able to read them at all.

Then of course, maybe he was wrong about it. He'd been wrong before. After all, she hadn't told him she loved him. In fact, nobody had ever told him that. He didn't even know how he'd feel to hear it. All in all, his best strategy for now was to continue on; try not to look at her, try not to talk to her, and definitely try not to touch her. He was distracted enough as it was.

He grit his teeth, cresting a hill yards ahead of the other members of his team, wanting to burn something down and yell at the rain to just fucking stop already. The last thing he needed was one more thing making life just a little harder than it needed to be.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

He hadn't so much as looked at her in days. She was more than just beginning to believe she'd made a horrible mistake in second guessing her original decision to never see him again.

Of course, she had to consider that perhaps the awful temper he seemed to be in had nothing to do with her or what had happened. The endless rain had made travel completely miserable. Only the first night had the rain let up enough to make camp, and even then it had been uncomfortable and damp. Since then, rest had been only to be had in brief intervals under natural shelter or they ended up just travelling straight through the exhaustion to reach Alenhatan where they could find lodging. Orphen had insisted it would be coming into view within a day; but with the fog rolling in, little was in view except the trees and each other.

Reiki lay draped across her shoulders, beneath her cloak, affording her at least that much warmth. But on days like this with her boots covered in mud, her cloak almost soaked through, her pack heavy and her legs screaming at her for walking miles without rest, she had to remind herself of how she'd longed to return to this life in those weeks after Majic had first gone off to the tower and Orphen had disappeared. She had to remind herself that she preferred this over needlepoint any day.

_You have to think of things in a positive light, Cleo. _

Her father had used to say that all the time. Even on his deathbed, as it happened. She just hadn't been there to hear it, as she hadn't gotten word of her father's condition until he had already passed. And it was difficult to think of _that_ in a positive light. Despite what he might have said.

Regardless how he would chide her endlessly for being such a tomboy, for her lack of social conscience and her poor representation of the family name; he would still smile at her in the end. He would still understand her, just that little bit. More than anyone else ever had, anyway. Cleo had to wonder what her father would have really thought about Orphen and her unrequited love affair with the vagabond mage.

"Master, looks like a cave." Majic's voice sliced into her thoughts with wonderful news. He was up ahead at the edge of the rise, which dissolved into a cobble of gray rock and moss which disappeared behind the timberline.

"A cave!" she repeated, glomming onto that ray of hope. "Please tell me we're stopping for awhile." She was ready to argue her stance, if necessary. She was cold and her legs were cramping; she hadn't slept in over 24 hours, and her cloak was so heavy with absorbed water she felt its weight pulling her a little closer to the ground with every muddy step. In fact, it might feel pretty good to have it out with Orphen. It would put things right. Yes, however he phrased his reply, she'd left him _have_ it.

Cleo watched him turn toward Majic with a neutral expression. "Well, Majic, are you volunteering to make sure it's not already occupied?"

Typical. He'd just ignored her. "Oh sure, send Majic. Send the apprentice into a dark cave to be mauled to death. Some Master you are, Orphen."

Well, that earned her a glare, his eyes scorching across rainy hillside to find hers, adding a substantial tension to the air and she almost shuddered. "Enough, Cleo."

While she unglued the words in her throat, he was turning to Majic again. "What spell do you think work best for examining a dark enclosed place?"

Oh, so it was a lesson. Nice place for one. She always loved it when suddenly it was time to finally teach Majic something right in the middle of something else. She set her jaw hard. _Enough_ indeed.

Majic, meanwhile, was scrubbing a hand through his damp hair. "Well, something that creates a lot of light."

"Would be a good choice…" Orphen prompted, crossing his arms. "Anything else?"

"I guess…something that could also be used to attack?"

"Sounds useful. Anything come to mind?"

"Ah…well." Majic screwed up his eyebrows. "The…light wave…?"

"Too fast, don't you think?"

Majic blinked at that a moment. "Is this one of those two step spells?"

"Sort of. Don't you remember the Small Spirit?"

"Oh! I do…but…" Majic's shoulders drooped and he hesitated. Either he hadn't been successful in directing the flow the first time, or he'd forgotten the action in the incantation. That usually seemed to be the usual reasons he gave. The funny thing was, it seemed to Cleo that she listened to the things Orphen taught him far more closely than Majic ever seemed to. Yes, if she only had the genes, she'd leave Majic in the dust. Of course, if she'd had the genes, her mother would probably insist she attend the Tower rather than learn from Orphen. Which was probably just as well, because no way would she ever call him _Master_.

"I create thee, small spirit." She piped up behind them, her voice as flat she could make it as she occupied herself pulling Reiki out from under her cloak and smoothing his fur. It wasn't even one of the hard ones.

Majic perked up. "Oh!" he said again. "Y-yes, I do remember that one…now…" he looked over at Cleo, seemingly embarrassed that even she could remember it when he couldn't. "But the second step…"

Orphen's eyes were on her again as well, and she could feel his gaze; it was a thrilling but uncomfortable sensation, like ants running down her spine. Whether he was surprised or annoyed, she couldn't tell. She determinedly watched Majic instead.

Finally he looked away. "The second step is more just like stalling the emission. Concentrate on stalling the effect, and it can just emit light. It won't hold long at first, but you can learn to hold it for up to a couple minutes. The Small Spirit is related to the Holy War incantation, it draws on the same energies."

"It does? But, Master, I can't do that one…"

"That's not what I'm saying, Majic," he sighed. "The only thing small spirit creates is light; even the attack is simply blinding. Holy War is sparked off by electrical charge. You don't have to draw as deeply just for light. That's why the light wave is so useful as a default, kneejerk attack; it doesn't expend as much energy."

Majic was nodding, eyes wide with the light of understanding. "Shall I try it?"

"Try it already, for god's sake, it'll be nightfall before we can set up camp at this rate." Cleo snapped, finally walking up level with the two of them. "If you don't, I'm going in with a lantern and I'll be warm, dry and asleep before you do this stupid spell."

"…Sorry…" Majic turned and headed toward the mouth of the cave.

It was as usual. She was angry at Orphen and only succeeded in alienating Majic. She watched him set down his pack on a rock and disappear around the rocky corner, into the mouth of the wide fissure in the rock face.

As soon as he was out of sight, Orphen's eyes snapped to her. "Do you have to do that?"

She turned her chin up at him defiantly. "Do what?"

"Heckle him like that. He's still learning."

She put her free hand on her hip. "Oh, you're one to talk, Mr. Role Model. Leave it to you to belittle him, is that right?"

"Jesus, what is it with you? Are you _trying_ to pick a fight?"

"I have to be starting a fight just because I'm frustrated you've stupidly left it up to Majic's skills to get us out of this rain when it should be you?"

"Do you have to answer me with a goddamn question every time?"

Her eyes flashed. "Does that _bother_ you?"

As a reply, he snatched her upper arm through her cloak and wheeled her around so fast she dropped her pack to the ground; Reiki jumping from her arms and growling as her back impacted the rocky wall of the outcropping they were sheltered against. She caught her breath in surprise, looking up at him in shock as he caged her in against him with his other arm against the wall and his hand tight on her bicep.

"What the hell?" she gasped, her eyes flicked over him in alarm. Was he going to hurt her?

"Yes, it fucking bothers me." He hissed.

"Why?" she persisted with the questions, just on principle now. She refused to be intimidated by him, despite how she damned her body for how it was already reacting to his proximity.

He glared daggers at her, the length of his body pressing against her now. "Are you enjoying this?"

She tilted her chin upward again in defiance, forcing an even tone. Her answer sort of depended on exactly what he meant by that. "And what if I am? It's better than you pretending I'm not even here, isn't it?"

"You say that like I even _can_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Stop that, Cleo, for fuck's sake." He sneered, giving her a little shake.

"Or what?" she goaded. She'd thought a good fight would help set things back to normal; instead it was the weirdest, most physical fight they'd ever had, and it was only highlighting the tension, making it all that much worse. But she wasn't going to back down now.

And she didn't.

He closed the scant distance between them at her challenge, answering her with a hard kiss that sucked the air from her lungs and made her knees falter. In her shock, she'd meant to shove him away, and she struggled for just a moment before her all her muscles started involuntarily relaxing. Her spine curved her up willingly against him as the velvet glide of his tongue slid against hers, the breath shuddering out of his body on a low, slow exhale. His hand released her bicep, and jerked open her cloak to touch her. His gloved palm slid roughly down the curve of her waist to curl around her back; tugging her tighter against him.

Cleo freed her arms, winding them shakily around him, her head tilting back, opening herself to him almost instinctively. The anger she felt emanating from him was beginning to ease, his movements becoming less violent, every breath heavy with that blood-boiling passion that had shaken her before; and it made her tremble, all the cold abruptly thawed from her skin and replaced with flashes of fire everywhere his fingers slipped across her clothes to find an opening.

His hands found her skin, sliding up the back of her blouse, his mouth never freeing hers. He ground against her and she could feel him, hard and straining, through the layers of fabric separating them; something that would have made her blush furiously only days ago now set her pulse skipping. His cool fingers on her warm skin sent a tremor raking through her, her body throbbing in response.

"Master? I can't hold it very long…" An echoing voice called from the cave, and her eyes flew open, body rigid with the fear of discovery.

"Fuck," Orphen hissed, quickly twisting away from her, the lines of his body taut with frustration and he pulled his hands from her clothes so quickly it almost startled her. She stared up at him in perplexed astonishment as he turned away.

"Orphen…" Was that her voice? It sounded so small.

"Later," he snapped, the anger back in place in his features. He looked back at her for a heartbeat, and his russet colored eyes had that same look as in the Inn room days before; the thing she'd only recognized later as fear. She grabbed at his arm.

"No—wuh-wait a second. I just…"

"Later, Cleo." His voice was rough, and he shook her off. He was still breathing hard.

"_Christ_…I just…"

She hadn't even time to look back up before his hands had closed on her once more, had drawn her up against him, and his mouth caught hers again almost magnetically. After a long, sultry moment of heart-pounding submission he pulled away again, fixing her glassy blue eyes with a heated stare.

"_Later_." He breathed in a low, almost dark voice, and she nodded dumbly before he let her go. Majic was calling again from the cavern, and somewhere in the back of her head, she heard Reiki growling low by her ankles. She got the distinct impression that he hadn't meant at all that he intended to hear what she had to say _later_.

She watched him striding away. "Son of a bitch," he murmured, turning into the cave. "It _does_ work."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Majic had chatted animatedly about light spells while they had set up camp, utterly oblivious to anything but his new mastery of the Small Spirit. He wanted to know its general uses and related spells, various alterations on the incantation, all of which Orphen unenthusiastically supplied him with answers and explanations while Cleo was laying out her bedroll with hanging up her cloak by the fire to dry.

To be perfectly frank, it wasn't a very impressive example of a cave. Not deep enough that anything would inhabit it, but substantial enough to keep the rain out; and now that the wind was picking up, finding anything of the sort was enough of a godsend that he wasn't going to complain about it one way or the other. It was dry, out of the wind, and had timber and branches inside that were dry enough to burn. He'd more than half expected Cleo to start in on why the place was total crap, but instead she was silent, saying nothing at all and simply going about setting herself up a place to sleep.

Reiki, however, was still watching him like a hawk, even over an hour after they'd all settled down to get some rest. Which, he figured, he should have expected. The deep dragon cub was probably under the impression he'd attacked her back there…and the damned thing was sort of correct in that assumption. He practically _had_ attacked her.

Staring into the warm, amber light of the fire, Orphen rubbed his hands over his face. Of all the fucking…what did he think he was doing with her back there? He'd laid out three very simple ground rules for himself: don't look at her, don't talk to her, and definitely don't touch her. Perhaps he should have broadened those rules to one, all encompassing tactic to just stay the hell away from her for awhile. Ten seconds into that ridiculous argument with her and all three of those mandates had blown away like smoke in the wind, they'd flown right out of his head and he'd itched, burned for any excuse to lay his hands on her. And as she pushed him further, once again, he'd reacted on impulse and found a reason whether it warranted it or not.

Perhaps at a cost. He'd definitely scared her. Hell, he was starting to scare himself. Once he'd had a taste of her, he hadn't been able to think past the red mist that inundated his brain, like some kind of rabid dog. Maybe it was the lack of sleep.

It wasn't the most unfamiliar of feelings. He'd just thought it would have lessened a bit now that they'd…well. What he hadn't expected was for those urges to multiply and become decidedly worse. Apparently he was having trouble getting himself back on the old leash. For the last three days, when he should have been thinking about what they'd be facing when they reached Taflem, what choice he was going to make regarding Majic and his possible return to the Tower, how he was going to find temperance in the face of constant temptation, or how everything that made up his life was hanging in the balance…all he could fucking think about was _her_.

What a bunch of bullshit. He pulled his blanket around him and sat further up, his boots scraping on the rock floor. On the other side of the fire, both his teammates were visible through the flames, recumbent in sleep. Majic, dozing on his back with his flannel hat pulled down low on his forehead, blanket wound up tight to his chin, and Cleo, on her side, knees slightly bent with her hand curled up close to her face, facing the fire with the bluish cub balled up close to her chest. Reiki's wolfish little face was resting on his paws, reflective green eyes open and fixed determinedly on him. Just in case he got too close. Or something.

"What are _you_ looking at, whelp?" He whispered over at him, and received a low growl in response. The cub stood suddenly and crawled beneath Cleo's blanket, vanishing for a moment and appearing inside the unbuttoned neckline of her sleepshirt, where he settled down, setting his muzzle down against the curve of her breast, still looking out over the fire and staring him down, almost gloatingly as her arm came up sleepily to curl around him with a soft, unintelligible murmur.

The fire rustled quietly in the dark, the wind screaming outside the mouth of the grotto, the silence echoing with that hollow howl. He put a hand on his knee and vaulted himself up. He had to get out of here, just for a few minutes. He left his cloak and vest drying by the fire, walking past Cleo as she slept, looking down on her for a moment while Reiki whined.

"Keep her, you little bastard." He muttered before striding out into the rain, which was predictably still falling. The wind was freezing, and he grit his teeth against it, welcoming the distraction of pain. No. This couldn't go on. He was exhausted and couldn't even sleep when he had a perfect chance. In fact, he'd barely slept in days. He wouldn't let this go on. If this circus was to continue, she would cost him all his self-control, and his mind. He was wracked with a sinister lust that made him think twisted things. Thoughts that made him angry and disgusted with himself, even as he felt undeniable heat surging through him.

_No_. He couldn't touch her again, not even once. He'd be afraid he wouldn't be able to let go next time. Already it was costing him the bulk of his concentration. He stood against the cold bullets of rain, pushing his hands against his face and through his wet hair in rising frustration.

"What the _fuck_?" he asked the darkness aloud.

"Fuh--! Krylancelo, you scared the _living hell_ out of me. How'd you know I was here?" The darkness answered incredulously, and Orphen jerked in surprise, even though the voice was unmistakable.

He only took a moment to collect himself and respond. "What, no big-deal introduction today about your pact with the night and all that?"

Hartia emerged from the edge of the trees, clothed in his tower robes and a sour expression. "Such would be wasted on you," he sniffed.

Orphen nodded, turning his face to the sky, the frigid rain pelting his face. "Yeah well, I'm not much of an audience today, _Shrimp Man_."

"Are you ever? Since I see that you're intent on giving yourself pneumonia," he said. "I can only imagine that I'm just here to add your chipper mood."

"Of course. As much as chatting it up sounds like a lovely fucking evening, I have to admit I'm curious as to what brings you here," he remarked testily.

"Thanks for the warm welcome. I know I can always count on you for that."

"Hey, no problem. I do what I can."

Hartia stared at him for a long silent moment, tilting his head appraisingly with a raise of his eyebrow. "Krylancelo, you look like death warmed over."

With a grimace, he gave him a sharp nod and didn't acknowledge that last comment whatsoever. "So. What's your purpose?"

The robed man set him mouth in a straight line of acceptance, begrudgingly coming to the point. "You have to know about what's happened."

Orphen caught his hand on the back of his neck and craned it to the side to look at him. "You mean the fires in Meverlenst?"

"Meverlenst, Doatni, Yugenia…the whole area, torched. Members of parliament burned alive, half the Order dead. It's a full scale political meltdown, and the Church has already dispatched battalions and aid and everything; meanwhile there's been no statement from the Tower on the incident whatsoever. There's murmurings of their involvement. What's oddest is that when I heard, I went to 'port back to Taflem…and I _can't_."

That caught his attention. "What do you mean you _can't_?"

"Exactly that. There's an equalizer, a barrier, _something_ set up that doesn't allow passage, at least of the magical kind. I can't communicate through it, nothing. So I thought…at least I should at least let you know that something seems..." Hartia looked distinctly troubled, his brow furrowed and eyes averted to the wet ground. "…wrong."

"No kidding. Huh." Orphen shrugged casually. "What, do you think the Tower might have been behind the attack?"

"Of course not!" Hartia was always so quick to get defensive when it came to the Tower's virtues, even though he was all too often blindly defending their dishonor.

"Oh no, couldn't be." Orphen mockingly agreed. "Maybe I'm just biased."

"Why would the Tower ambush anybody, especially with such crude and cowardly tactics? It has a good portion of governmental pull as it is, not to mention better methods of invasion than…"

"If it _was_ the Tower, that's exactly why they wouldn't use any of their usual tactics. Not if they didn't want it to be obvious who…"

"The tower has _no need_ to disguise themselves, Krylancelo."

"They would if they'd just attacked the imperial court. That barrier you mentioned would also suggest otherwise."

Hartia scowled, his wet rust-colored hair clinging to his cheek. "It has to be defensive someh—"

"Shrimp Man?" Both men's eyes swung to the mouth of the cave, where Cleo stood in her nightshift, her shearling blanket wrapped around her and Reiki clasped with both hands against her chest. "What are you doing here?"

Orphen glared at her hard, as though the entire thing was her fault. She always seemed to pop back up when he'd successfully focused on something else for a minute. Of course, it had always been that way. "Go back to sleep, Cleo. You'll catch something running around like that. Put something _on_ for Chrissake."

"Look at _you_, idiot." She scoffed, scowling at him just as pointedly before shifting her eyes and her weight all at once. "And you too, Shrimps, what are you doing out here in the rain?"

Hartia gave her a genial smile, inclining his head at her just a bit. Apparently he was finished with trying to push the Black Tiger correction issue on her. The whole nickname had sprung up in a misunderstanding regarding his alter-ego renegade hero Black Tiger, whom he had stolen from a comic book, and a certain variety of shrimp boasting the same name. Even at the time, Orphen had laughed at Cleo's annoyance with the entire absurd debacle. "I apologize for disturbing you, Miss Cleo. I came to discuss some matters with--"

"You mean came to argue with me to convince yourself that the Tower of Kiba is as blameless as ever." Orphen interjected. "Hartia, it wouldn't be the _first_ time they'd started a war."

Cleo perked at that, her eyebrows knitting. "A war? Nobody said anything about a _war_. Is this about Meverlenst?"

Orphen sighed loudly, turning on his heel and striding past her, back into the cave. A few moments later she was at his heels, Hartia behind her. He sat himself down at the fire and stared at it while Hartia reiterated his story to Cleo.

"A barrier?" she was saying, sitting cross-legged on her bedroll with her blanket around her shoulders, her legs distractingly bare in the firelight. "Maybe they're afraid whoever attacked those cities would be after them next. Can't you just walk through it?"

"I haven't tried yet, but it's doubtful. It just wouldn't make sense. If they were trying to keep invaders out, why allow _physical_ passage but not allow teleportation spells through? They're blocking out their own people. It's just strange."

Orphen twitched, untying his soaked headband and wringing it out onto the rocks beside the fire. "Unless it's not that they're trying to keep their people out, but rather keep them in," he muttered.

Hartia had taken a seat beside the fire as well, and looked over with a blank expression to find his friend's interest engrossed in the burning glow. "Keep them in… why would they do _that_?"

"How the hell should _I_ know? But it would explain why you can't 'port through it."

The other sorcerer nodded a little, becoming silent; the three warming quietly, lost in their own heads until Cleo, being Cleo, chirped an optimistic affirmation.

"Well, I guess we'll find out, won't we?" She said this with such a bright voice that Orphen felt too compelled to look up at her that it didn't even occur to him to fight the temptation as he'd told himself earlier he must. Her words lured his eyes up out of the hot coals to fasten on hers; the dancing glow of the flames reflected there, even though they weren't looking at him. Cleo and her never-say-die attitude had been a driving force behind their team, their decidedly motley band, for awhile now. While Orphen had a way of talking himself into a black corner in the face of difficulty, Cleo had never allowed that. She would get in his face and verbally shake him out of it, demanding he look past his childish tendency to see the worst possible outcome. She would tell him to grow up, to drive on, to look at things in a positive light. Sometimes, it was fairly evident that they may not have accomplished the things they had without Cleo's unyielding motivation. Even though at the times her dynamic impetus had really gotten to him the most, he'd just told her she was being a bitch.

"What do you mean? Do you intend to test the barrier?" At the sound of Hartia's voice, his eyes snapped back to the fire. He'd been looking at her for far too long as it was.

Cleo's hands fluttered around. "We were already headed to Taflem even before _you_ showed up, Shrimp Man. With us on the case, we'll bust this thing wide open. Right, Orphen?"

Once again, that word just didn't sound right to him. Especially with Hartia around, calling him unrestrainedly by the name he'd abandoned; and Majic who was ever faithful in calling him by his title. Not that the he felt he earned it, most of the time.

"Orphen, we _are_ still headed to Taflem?" She sounded irritated.

He nodded, absentmindedly poking the fire with a long stick. "We don't have much choice. If we don't go to the Tower, I more than expect the Tower to come to us. If it hasn't already…" he eyed his old friend, who threw up his hands defensively.

"Krylancelo--"

Orphen waved him off. "Looks like you're going to have to come with us, Hartia. We'll be in Alenhatan by tomorrow. We'll find lodging, and we can map this out more thoroughly." He thought that should close the matter. They could all just settle down and try to finally get a little rest before another day of walking through that godforsaken rain for hours on end.

Hartia was staring at the fire now, a little drawn in the face, apparently thinking the same thing. "How you travel around without just 'porting into towns is beyond me."

"Majic hasn't studied long enough to learn any translocating magic." He looked over at the boy, still asleep amid all the commotion. "Besides, you know how painful it is at first. He's talented, but he isn't ready for how _that_ feels."

"It hurts?" Cleo's voice piped up once more, and she paused in digging through her pack. "When you do that…it _hurts_?"

Obviously, she knew he was doing his best to ignore her, he could just feel it. She'd said as much earlier. "Well." He said succinctly, shrugging a little, poking at the fire. "Just at first, you know. The first few times it feels like being torn apart."

She stared at him a moment, even as he realized it may have been a poor choice of wording, given recent events. Her eyes were wide, and he knew he'd said the wrong thing again. Not that he could tell her one way or the other he hadn't intended the innuendo whatsoever.

"I see," she nearly whispered, her expression somehow stricken but decidedly flushed. He shouldn't have said that, that much was obvious. As usual, the words had flown out before he'd even thought about them. Sometimes he just didn't know why he said the things he said. Or at least in the _way_ he did. But since when had he ever said anything right?

Right. Fucking _never_. After all, it was his uncontrollable mouth that had gotten him into this mess.

"But…it doesn't feel that way forever? Like…the next time you do it, it won't hurt?"

He almost choked around the knot of anxiety that had appeared in his throat. It was a legitimate question, Hartia had no way of knowing that she wasn't really asking about teleportation spells at all. She was just trying to make him squirm, was that it?

"Nuh…no. It doesn't. It won't." He barely got that reply out; his voice as dry and frail as paper, and he had the most absurd compulsion to both embrace her and strangle her at the same time. Somehow today he'd inadvertently ensured her twice that he had every intention of doing exactly what he'd sworn couldn't happen again. Like some kind of accidental confession.

Her gaze abruptly averted and she went back to digging through her pack, and in the cruel cavern of his mind he could hear the remembered echo of her pained whimper as he'd pushed himself deeper into the clinging velvet squeeze of her body; could see the splotches of blood on the sheets the next morning. And now he could add that wounded look she'd given him to all the most recent reasons that proved he was a complete bastard.

While Hartia chimed in, beginning to explain to Cleo the ins and outs of translocating; Orphen fell back limply against his bedroll, throwing an arm over his eyes to count himself out of any continued conversation.

He'd never get to sleep now with the thoughts that were churning in his head. Like he needed another reason to lie awake at night. Tonight would be no different than the last few, with the addition of Hartia brainlessly continuing to blather on about the trajectories and physics involved with translocating; formulas and theories and all the parts of school that had made Orphen's brain go dead. He'd always excelled at the application, rather than the theory of his studies with an almost intrinsic, second-natural understanding of magic. Listening to it, his head was pounding already; and with the wind screaming outside, he snuck a furtive glance from under his arm to where she lay, nodding with interest, her blanket wrapped around her torso, Reiki curled sleeping against her covered leg, one knee steepled up with her chin resting on it, listening. The amber lit length of her bare thigh drew his eye up along that sleek curve to the small scrap of white fabric visible between her legs under the edge of her nightgown, and he rolled over awkwardly, his back to the fire, cursing his blood for burning though his veins like acid, and his luck for seeming to have completely run out.


	8. The Lovers

**Chapter Eight: The Lovers**

Majic Lin heard voices in the stairwell.

He blinked away sleep, hearing only the ardent moan of the storm gales still whipping against the lodge before he noticed the indistinct murmur of dialogue outside in the corridor. He blinked again, lifting his head from his pillow and glancing at the small bedside clock, squinting a bit for the hands to come into focus. It was well into the early morning, closer to two than one; he was warm and exhausted, the wind was still screaming outside and there were voices out in the stairwell.

Scrubbing the back of his wrist across one eye, he shifted up a little higher to look at the other bed, which proved as empty and untouched as it had been when he'd gone to sleep hours before. Hartia hadn't returned yet from the Tavern, where he and Orphen had gone to assess the situation that lay ahead and presumably come up with some sort of strategy to enter Taflem. He supposed they were still working on that, with the aid of some alcohol. Unless they were the ones out in the corridor bickering, this didn't seem terribly far fetched.

His master had seemed tired lately. It made sense that perhaps he was troubled by the barrier Hartia had encountered at the Tower; something that even made Majic a little apprehensive. That and the purported involvement of the Kimurak Church. Majic didn't know much about the Church as it was; his father hadn't raised him in the Kimurak Faith, and his mother had followed the Way of Tyr, as did most from sorcerous families. But he remembered some of the things she'd said about the Church, whether it was in conversations with his father or direct comments, none of them were positive. She'd called them bloodthirsty; a cult of insane, ignorant murderers spreading lies like disease. They blamed sorcery in itself to be the bane of man's woes, the reason for his exile from paradise. Short of persecuting sorcerers and those of sorcerous descent like the radical Dragon Believers, the Church certainly didn't look fondly on the continued teaching and existence of sorcery of any kind. Majic didn't know a lot about politics, nor had he ever been particularly interested, but how the Church and Tower could call themselves affiliated in any way was beyond him. They were negatives of one another; there had been war between them at least three times, the most recent only about a hundred years earlier. Even then, the final treaty was tense and obligatory. He'd learned about the Sand War in school, so he knew that much. He just couldn't really remember the names of the generals and the battles and all the specific things that had been on the history exams. Which was nothing new. He always choked up on tests. He was sure his Master could attest to that.

What he did remember was that where religion was involved, no one usually settled for agreeing to disagree.

He pulled his legs from the blankets, swinging them over the edge of the bed and to the floor, listening to the rhythm of the low voices going back and forth. It sounded like an argument, which meant it probably _was_ his Master and Hartia. They more often than not had a multitude to disagree on when it came to their opinions of the Tower of Kiba, enough to keep them up well into the morning if they were forced to draw a few conclusions, and particularly if alcohol had been involved. Majic had spent some time there at the Tower himself, and it was a unquestionably austere place. Strict and intensely orthodox in its teachings; so different from the way he'd become used to learning sorcery that he'd been completely lost in their methods. He had to agree with his Master on a lot of his opinions on the Tower, although he obviously still bore a grudge against them, and with, Majic thought, good reason.

Even though he was probably wasting all his talent in his refusal to return. No matter what anybody said, Majic had studied long enough to know that his Master was a powerful sorcerer; most of the time he just played around with enemies, their strength not warranting the full use of his. One of the first lessons he'd ever had was Orphen instructing him to only use as much power as was truly warranted; bleeding yourself dry too early in a fight spelled a quick death for yourself and anyone relying on you.

Majic moved closer to the door. Perhaps it would be a good idea to bring the time to their attention. They had a lot of travelling to do to get further North to Fenril; and Orphen himself had insisted they were in for a difficult road the next few days, and to enjoy the rest they could get.

Leave it to his Master to say one thing and do another. Couldn't be shocked at that one.

His hand closed around the cold metal of the doorhandle, leaning forward to ease the door open enough to identify the voices, when he heard the hollow echo of footfalls on the stairs. Two pairs, coming up the steps quickly enough the Majic paused with the door only cracked; suddenly unsure. Maybe it wasn't who he'd thought…

"You wish," a female voice was saying; he hadn't heard the first part.

"What took you so long?"

"Did you expect me to run up here the second it got quiet?"

"You didn't?"

"What, have you been sitting out there waiting for me?"

"—yes, come to think of it."

The voices were unmistakable. It was his Master all right, but, strangely enough, with Cleo instead of Hartia. It was an unusual circumstance to begin with; but at this hour? Majic pushed the door open just a little more, so he could see out into the gas-lit corridor. What was going on? Had there been another attack? Were they on their way to wake him up also?

Majic tilted his forehead against the door, straining his eyes to see as far to the right as he could; and finally he could see a figure at the top of the stairwell a few doors down, and as he thought, they were coming closer. He almost opened the door; but as they came into more distinguishable view, he could see his Master had Cleo by her wrist and was virtually dragging her down the hallway.

"Ha." Cleo was saying. "I think you're the one that missed m—"

She was cut short as Orphen used his grip on her arm to steer her against the closed entrance to his room across the hall. Just hard to enough to make Majic, concealed beyond his slightly ajar door, jerk in surprise.

After all this time, surely Orphen wouldn't really _hurt_ Cleo…would he? Majic had thought perhaps, since their quarreling had seemed to lessen over the past couple months, that they'd been evolving more into the partners they were supposed to be rather than bickering captives locked in the same cell. One only had to see how much Cleo was able to frustrate his usually apathetic Master to see just what was going on there. But they were both too stubborn to acknowledge it.

Majic's attention was rapt on Cleo's startled face in the dim, lamplit hallway. Her features, or at least what were visible of them in his tiny, vertical window of vision, had a distinctly anxious expression. He also noticed for the first time she wasn't wearing her travelling clothes, but rather a light colored dress with a large, furry-looking collar and belt, and little heeled shoes, which was decidedly curious in itself.

"Geez, Orphen," she huffed after a moment. "What's your problem? What are you so angry about?"

"I'm not," he spat, leaning forward and, to Majic's absolute shock, kissing her square on the mouth.

Behind the door, the young apprentice slapped a hand over his lips to catch the gasp that jumped out of his throat. Hand still in place, he leaned closer to the gap in the door, watching them numbly as Cleo didn't shove him away and instead wrapped her arms around his neck. He watched them as their heads tilted around at different angles, the sound of the wind outside mingling with their breathing, and Majic felt his face burning hot with a blush he could feel up into his hairline. Even though he knew well that he should, he found it impossible to tear his eyes away from what felt like the most simultaneously shocking and predictable thing he'd ever seen.

Finally there was the wet click of their mouths parting, and Orphen's head was inclining to the side, kissing her neck with a slowness that only made his hidden apprentice's flush deepen almost violently. One of his hands moved from where they were anchored on the door on either side of her narrow shoulders, and scandalously started undoing the buttons at the top of her dress.

Majic swallowed thickly. It was clear that he needed to stop watching them or he was going to learn more from Orphen than he'd bargained for. Regardless, he felt frozen, watching this surreal display with shock and awe. _When_ had _this_ started?! How long had it been going on? Sure, they'd been acting a little different, but not so different that he would have suspected that mile-thick ice between them had been, apparently, smashed to pieces.

Cleo's head was craned to the side, exposing the long line of her neck. Her eyes were closed, her brows knit in a conflicted air. Suddenly she spoke, her voice breathy and weak.

"Ah-I promised myself I wouldn't do this again with you," she nearly whispered.

Majic strained his ears to hear the muffled reply that came after a moment, feeling embarrassed to be eavesdropping so blatantly on his friends and yet too curious to close that door just yet. "Did you."

"…Yes."

"Well, we have something in common," he muttered coolly against her neck. "So did I."

Her eyes opened, seeming to look at the ceiling with sadness on her face that, typical to Cleo, shifted to anger. "You liar," she hissed. "You were the one—"

"I know." He cut her off, sounding aggravated. "As I recall, you weren't pushing me away, either."

"I meant to."

"Sure you did."

"What changed your mind then?"

Instead of a reply, he kissed her again, catching her jaw in his other hand and pushing her flat against the door with his body. After a minute, her leg lifted from the floor and hooked around his, and Orphen's hand that had been undoing her buttons suddenly took more interest in slipping up her leg until it disappeared under the hem of her skirt.

Cleo tore her mouth away from his a few moments later with a sharp gasp, her head limply falling back against the door. With every moment that passed, her mouth opened a little wider until she whispered to him again, this time with an urgent tone.

"Not out here…someone's going to see us."

Her hand was already fumbling blindly around for the doorknob, and she finally caught it and twisted, finding it locked. Majic watched silently as his Master's hand went down to cover hers over the knob, followed by the rasp of his voice; sharp sounding even in a murmur; even with his mouth against Cleo's throat.

"I invite thee, gate of origin."

The doorknob turned under their tangled hands, and with a few movements, Orphen had caught her around the waist and they'd disappeared behind the door to his room with a dull click of the tumblers of the lock falling into place; the hallway falling into deceptive silence behind them.

Majic spent another few shellshocked moments staring into the vacant hallway before he pushed the door back shut with a robotic, stiff movement, and remained sitting on the floor for several minutes. Hartia would return eventually, he knew he couldn't stay sitting on the floor in front of the door like that, but the event he'd just witnessed had paralyzed his sense. However long it had been going on, it had certainly been a longer time coming. He hadn't even had an inkling of this sort of change in their…or had he? Majic tried to think. Maybe there was something. He just couldn't think of it. His mind was a scattered mess; like leaves hit with a sharp gust of wind, and his legs were cramping up. His bare feet were cold and the fire in the stove had long gone out.

Climbing up awkwardly from the floor, he numbly clambered back into bed to stare at the ceiling, listening vacantly to the wind scratching at the shutters outside. Going back to sleep was going to be a definite chore now, between worrying about what was happening at the Tower, the involvement of the Church, what sort of war-preparation climate they were headed straight into, and now _this_ new development. He wasn't sure what to make of it. In a way, he felt strangely elated about it; but rather troubled all the same. Why were they hiding it? He supposed there were any number of reasons.

He lay for almost an hour; alternately laying on his left and right sides, then his back, drumming his fingers against the coverlet and listening to the moaning wind.

It wasn't as though he hadn't been aware of Cleo's feelings for his Master. Those were fairly plain to anyone who'd bother to look. The only person who seemed mostly oblivious to them was Orphen himself, and even then, he couldn't have been entirely so; he wasn't stupid. But Orphen was usually shut up tighter than a clam; and though he'd occasionally perceived a hint of dawning fondness between them, he'd have never thought things between them had progressed in such a manner while he hadn't been looking. He wondered if it was perverted to be curious how it had come to pass.

"_Master, are you sure you're alright? Are you injured?" _

He recalled the bare look of surprise on his Master's face as he'd slapped his hand over that decidedly vicious looking, four-fingered abrasion that carved down his shoulder. Oh yes. Majic had had the distinct impression his Master had had a girl in his room that morning in Totokanta. The morning he'd knocked on his door because Cleo had been—

Oh.

Of course. Suddenly that entire weird morning made sense. Orphen had been in a peculiar temper that had worsened steadily the more Majic had tried to convince him to be more concerned with Cleo's disappearance from her home. Of course he hadn't seemed worried about it; even less than had seemed usual. Perhaps because he'd actually known where Cleo'd been all night.

None of it helped him feel less stunned by what he'd seen, made him wonder less how long they'd been hiding it and he'd been utterly ignorant. Majic turned onto his right side again just as the doorknob turned and Hartia quietly drug himself into the room, presumably just now returning from the tavern.

Did Hartia know? Was Majic the only one who had been completely in the dark? After a moment of feeling wounded, he quickly dismissed the idea. It didn't seem like information Orphen would disclose willingly. If he knew his Master at all, he was probably having enough trouble with it on his own; and he'd never been one to randomly share his thoughts unless it was completely necessary. He probably hadn't even talked about it with Cleo.

Hartia was pulling off his shoes fumblingly; tossing his robe over a wooden chair and climbing into bed. Majic was somehow grateful for the other sorcerer's presence. If only for the distraction. It was sure to be another long night.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

He was on her the second the lock clicked shut; his free hand pulling her legs high around his waist as he was lifting her against the closed door, dragging the hem of her dress up around her hips. Almost before she could process it, there was the distinct jingle of him undoing his belt, which set her heart pounding as he was kissing a smoldering line along the underside of her jaw line and up to her parted lips. Apprehension and adrenaline made her quake, her heart thrashing behind her ribcage as he nudged the fabric of her undergarment to the side, and, with little warning, pushed into her. A cry mingled in the meet of their mouths, almost like a sob of relief; a heartfelt wordless harmonic that rippled through her with a depraved, carnal sort of beauty.

Orphen didn't move for a long moment, seemingly gathering his wits, a tight shaking in his limbs giving itself away as the fierce tremor of restraint. She felt him sigh against her shoulder, a long, slow exhale; followed by an unexpected sentence.

"Am I hurting you?"

She tried to speak, but her voice was gone; dried up and blown away in the wind, so she shook her head. She recalled their double-edged conversation by the fire the night before; she'd only said what she had to let him know that little comment about the first time being painful hadn't been lost on her. But apparently her reply had rather had an impact on him.

It was bizarre; how he could be so forceful pushing her around like he'd done twice in as many days, then worry about hurting her. How he could with the same mouth say such cruel things, utter words that spelled the pain of death to adversaries, then use it to kiss her so tenderly. It just didn't make sense. _He_ just didn't make sense. Unfortunately, she suspected that was one of the reasons she found him so irresistible.

In the same way he could possibly be one of the most powerful sorcerers in the continent and could veritably have the moon on a string if he just would return to the tower, yet he preferred the life of a rogue. Or maybe he was just used to it. She didn't know. He would never talk about it anyway.

While her thoughts snared around themselves like fishing line, he was rocking into her, holding her up against the door, her bare legs folded tightly around his waist. She whimpered vaguely with each change in movement from gentle to harder and back again, already mindless with the feel of him and the clamor of ignoble lust that shook in her blood. That glorious pressure was building; and she moved with him as best she could, hanging onto him tight around his neck, finding his mouth in the dark and kissing him, catching his bottom lip between hers and giving it a gentle nip with her teeth, an action that earned her a low growl that resonated through her, goading her on until she suddenly soared; gasping his name and shuddering in hysterical rapture, going involuntarily boneless in his arms and still he bore her up like she weighed nothing.

His voice hissed hot against her ear, "That's not my name."

Drunk on lust and confusion, she opened her eyes to find his but saw nothing but the darkness of the room, his body too buried against hers to see him in the least; he may as well have been a ghost. "Wha…What?"

"Say it…I want to hear you…" his voice was fire, licking over her exposed shoulder and neck; raw and honest and devastating.

"Or--" she swallowed hard, apprehensive somehow. His name? His name that he'd thrown away, the one he'd disowned? It seemed like such a strange request, especially given the timing. She didn't understand…but even if he no longer used it, it was still his _name_, after all…and he was asking her…

"Krylancelo…" she whispered breathlessly, uncertainly, and no sooner had she said it than his hands tightened on her with bruising force, pushing her against the door as he bit back a groan, releasing fiercely enough to leave him panting, dropping his forehead against the door with a dull thump. After a long moment he released her, lowering her legs to the floor where she stood tremblingly against him; her shoes lost somewhere on the dark floor around them. He finished undoing her buttons and slid her dress from her shoulders while she looked up at him in the dark, trying to find him with her eyes as he took her hands and led her in what she assumed was the direction of the bed, and she followed on shaking legs.

He wasn't finished with her, that much was clear.

It must have been hours later that she awoke in the darkness to the scream of the wind outside. They'd made love twice more before she remembered falling asleep, her arm draped around his waist, listening to his breathing begin to even out again. She'd done her best to ignore it, the misery that burned a little hotter in her brain with every soft breath on her collarbone; with every sigh; every long, slow kiss and gentle sweep of fingers along bare skin that tortured her more and more with the false sensation of tender sentiment; lovemaking without the love.

Why was she doing this to herself? All of this only made the every-day version of life so excruciating, an endless chain of rejection. How long could this go on? She felt sure that she'd only be able to bear it for so long before she'd lose her mind. Or she'd just wither away from the inside, collapsing in on herself, like a rotting fruit.

At least, that was how it felt. Her heart as a bruised, shriveling apple that nobody wanted. It seemed a fitting role.

She rolled over, finding the room filled with the dim glow of the fire in the glass-front stove in the corner. Orphen must have gotten up at some point and stoked it, to fight off the chill brought through every crack by the vicious wind. She turned her eyes to him, finding him laying on his back, awake, his eyes open and staring up at the flickering, cedar beamed ceiling with his wrist resting on his forehead in silent but ostensible distress.

Cleo tucked her left arm under her head, hesitant to speak somehow. Why her instincts still insisted she approach him like a sleeping panther, she didn't know. "What are you doing awake?" she whispered.

He didn't answer right away, his profile sharply silhouetted by the firelight that lit his bare skin. "I don't know," he said quietly.

"Have you slept at all?"

"No…" he replied irritably, shifting a bit, watching the shadows on the ceiling and determinedly not looking away.

"Well, you're freaking me out just laying there."

She saw the corner of his mouth tighten for a moment. "Hmm."

"…Is it the barrier in Taflem that Hartia talked about…" she prompted softly, "…the attack on the capital?...Or is it…you know…" she paused, shifting the arm that pillowed her head. She didn't know how else to say it. "…this." She'd just barely avoided saying "me" instead.

He was quiet again, his eyes fixed above them. "It's…a lot of things." He said uneasily.

Cleo rolled to her back as well. "It's this," she concluded, folding her arms across her chest defensively as he finally turned toward her, his mouth curled up into a curiously beautiful sneer.

"I didn't say that," he said tonelessly, doing that little eyebrow thing he always did. She _loved_ that eyebrow thing, so she turned away, sitting up and squinting around for a wall clock. As usual, things would be so much easier if he just wasn't so infuriatingly gorgeous. As if all this wasn't painful enough.

"You didn't have to." She murmured, "What time is it? I should go back to my room, I left Reiki…"

She didn't look back at him, instead shifting the covers off of her body and moving to climb out before he caught her wrist and pulled her back just enough to turn her toward him, finding her eyes full of obvious sorrow; her body nude in the warm radiance of the wood-stove.

"No…" he said quickly, a little louder than was necessary, his hand tightening a fraction about her wrist like she might rip it away. Almost as though her leaving made a difference to him.

She didn't cover herself as she once would have. Instead she turned more fully toward him, uncovered and cold, her hair hanging over her shoulders, bright in the firelight. "You want me to stay?"

He hesitated, obviously conflicted. "…yes."

"You don't have to say it just to spare me…"

"Since when have I _ever_…" He said softly, tugging her arm more insistently.

At a loss for a comment for once, Cleo crawled back into bed beside him, curling up on her side in silence, her back to him and the glow of the fire. It was only a moment before his arms snaked around her, pulling her to him, her back flat against his chest, and they lay in fragile silence until she finally spoke.

"Sounds like it's starting to rain again."

His sound of displeasure puffed a prickle of warm breath across her shoulder. "Great."

"Would you rather deal with that wind instead?"

"Maybe."

"…Are you going to keep giving one word answers to everything I say?"

"Well, I'm not sure if I just _say_ everything wrong or if you _take_ everything wrong; but it's one or the other and I figure I'd cut down the chances of an argument by just keeping my mouth shut."

"Ah, clever. You do have a way of sayings things…"

"Ah, here I was thinking it had to be you taking everything the worst possible way." He punctuated that little shot with a kiss dropped between her shoulder blades.

"Why does it have to be me?" The venom she'd intended for that demand fell flat in the soft drag of his lips up the back of her neck.

"Because if absolutely everything that came out of my mouth was that atrocious, you wouldn't be here." She could veritably hear the smirk in that sentence as another kiss chased his first up the nape of her neck, his breath breezing into her hairline. No doubt he felt her shiver.

"Well, there's a prizewinner," she commented softly. Once again, he was blowing hot and cold with the same breath, being a jerk and making her melt with the same mouth.

"Not true?"

She leaned back into him a little before rolling in his embrace, winding her limbs around him in intoxication. "I guess so."

Silence filled the room around them, settling heavily like snow. She lay with her head on his shoulder, smoothing her fingers lightly down his torso, slowly, as though she meant to map the topography of his body in her memory. She leaned up on an elbow suddenly, her fingers brushing over the smooth ridge of a vicious scar along his ribs.

"Oh, you have a scar here."

"Mm." He seemed half asleep by now, his head tilted back on his pillow.

She craned her neck over, her eyes reflecting the firelight as she looked down at him. "Where'd you get it?"

Orphen opened his eyes again, at first with an annoyed air that seemed to dissipate quickly. "Who knows."

"How can you not know how you got such a…"

He sighed suddenly. "It was a…fight. They're just about all from fighting in one way or another, if you can imagine. I can't remember which one is from what anymore. I have a lot of them."

The wind gusted against the window. Now that she'd leaned up to get a look at the scar, it had obviously been a very nasty wound; deep and curved across his left side. "Are _all_ of them from battles?"

"…I guess I probably got some as a kid. Falling off things or whatever. Getting hit with sticks. Whatever kids do." He said this with a vaguely distant expression that vanished as quickly as it had descended.

Her eyes finally moved from the scar, flicking back up to his face to find him watching her. "Hard to imagine you ever having been a child."

"I can't tell…is that supposed to be some kind of insult?"

"No…" she reached up to run her fingers through his hair, watching his eyes drop closed as she did so. "It's a compliment."

"Really…" he said softly, "Care to explain how?"

"Not really." She remarked, trailing her fingers down his neck. "I guess it's just that I imagine you always were the way you are now. I guess, in reality, you were probably a horrid little boy."

"Hmm." He rumbled at that, catching her wrist again and tilting her onto her back, leaning over her; a move she recognized from the night she'd accidentally ended up in his bed. "I'm sure you were a model of all the virtues."

Cleo scowled up at him in the shade he cast over her. "I could have kicked _your_ ass."

Inexplicably, he laughed at that, a brief flash of his teeth in the fire-shadow darkness that made her stomach quiver with butterflies that had no business being there. "Oh, I have no doubt. I can see you now, a chubby little terror in ribbons …"

"I wasn't chubby, I was skinny."

"Just as bad."

"And I wore my hair in braids."

"And a thousand freckles." He finished, his eyes flitting over her dimly lit visage, pausing as though he was noticing for the first time. "Actually. You…still have freckles." Suddenly he looked a little wary.

"Only five of them," she scoffed.

His fingers came up to smooth some hair from her face. "Really. You've counted."

"Of course. I've been waiting for them to go away forever."

He just looked down at her for a few moments, his eyes seeming to appraise her as he lay propped up on an elbow, having shifted his hold on her wrist to having laced his fingers through hers when she hadn't been paying attention, and her heart jumped in her chest like a fish on the shore.

"I don't know…I sort of like them." He murmured almost vacantly. "I think they should stay."

Now she blushed. "You do?" That might have been the first purposely nice thing he'd ever said to her. She meant to say so, but she couldn't formulate the sentence she intended.

They watched each other in humming silence for a few moments longer than she would have expected, her stomach fluttering with those late-arrival butterflies and she wet her lips just in time for him to lean down and catch them with his. Strange how tangibly she could feel how with every kiss he hammered another nail in the coffin of her miserable pining; as much as she loved it, it just felt too real. Everything between them seemed to change when they kissed. The world seemed to drop dead around her, and she _felt_ changed. _He_ always changed beneath her lips, and it dizzied her a little, the tenderness and threat of him: a dichotomy that was nothing new. He breathed deep, his arm sliding under her to squeeze her against him, his hand cupping the nape of her neck in a seemingly affectionate cradle that proved almost too much for her. When he did things like that, it was just too easy to pretend that all of this meant something to him the way it meant everything to her.

She pulled away and sat up suddenly, breathless, a sudden charge of tears stinging her eyes. "Orphen…"

"Cleo." He responded in kind, irritated.

"I…" she began blindly, not even certain what she meant to say. "I don't…know. I just…" She swallowed hard, looking back at him over her shoulder, anxiety swelling in her. She couldn't say it—she'd said she wouldn't have any inane illusions and that was what this was, just another trick her own heart was playing on her. Just wanting to find a shred of emotion that was meant just for her, grasping at straws that couldn't really be there.

Of course, she'd said that before he was kissing her in every shadow and behind rocks and anywhere and anytime no one was around. It was before they were running up the stairs in the dead of night to make love the first chance they got. It was before she'd just had this unshakeable notion that he wasn't being entirely honest with her. Not that she'd actually asked in the first place. Now that she thought about it, he hadn't said anything on the subject of their new arrangement one way or the other. Maybe she was the one who didn't ask because she didn't want to hear his answer.

Even still, cowardice reared its head. "Are we still going to Taflem…even after finding out that something must be going on there?"

He gave her a befuddled look, raising an eyebrow and leaning on his elbows, the long line of his back bare in the fire's amber glow. "Of course we are. More than ever, it's of vital importance to get Majic back in the Tower. If he's a student at the Tower, there's no way they'll ask him to fight. He's an apprentice, he doesn't know enough to be of any real use; he'll be safer that way. In fact, it might not even be a bad idea for you to stay there for awhile…"

"But didn't you say you thought the Tower might be the ones who attacked?"

"Possibly, but we won't know that until we get there."

"And what if they are? And what about _you_?" She looked at him over her bare shoulder.

"What about me?" He turned onto his side. "I rather expect I'll be asked to contribute to their war effort, if there is one. And there's _going_ to be, believe me. According to Hartia, Meverlenst and the surrounding area is already under occupation of the Church's forces and there's still no word from the Tower on the incident, which may or may not because of the barricade around it, and the Parliament has imposed martial law—"

"You mean they're going to ask you to fight." She didn't mean her voice to sound that way, it just did. And he noticed.

"Well…yeah," he answered warily, clearly taking note of her tearful tone. "They've been after me to come back ever since…"

"I don't want you to fight."

Orphen blinked at her a moment. "Why not?"

He stared at him hard, clutching handfuls of the bed sheet up against her breast. "Why do you think?"

"Ah—well…I don't know. You've never seemed that concerned before."

Cleo twisted at the waist to face him better. "What! Oh no, I wasn't worried about you using the sword; I wasn't scared that you'd die or anything was I? I've _never_ been worried for your safety even though you're the most reckless person I've ever met in my life! I've never asked you not to--"

The sarcasm didn't escape him. "You've never asked me not to fight."

"You've never listened to me!" She spat, pulling her legs up under her, her posture suddenly defiantly straight once again, gearing up for a row. Even now, he claimed ignorance to her feelings. Even after the last few days. Even after tonight.

Before he could respond to her last comment, she threw him a curveball. "Do you think I'm a whore?"

His expression spoke of just how much the direction of that tangent was lost on him. "_What!_"

She clutched the sheets hard with white-knuckled conviction. Her mind may have been trying it's damnedest to make her feel things from him that weren't there: a ghost of affection in his embrace, a gentle warmth in his touch, a certain sense of tenderness in his kiss underneath the hunger that may have been there regardless of who he was kissing; but she felt it all the same and she gave that back to him. She'd never really tried to hide her feelings from him; she'd worn them on her sleeve, put her heart on a silver platter, opened herself utterly and given herself to him and she'd be damned if he was going to sit there and just deny it.

He was veritably gaping at her, so she repeated herself. "Do you think I've only been doing this with you because I'm a slut?"

Finally he sat up, the lines of his posture projecting outright rage. "What the hell, why would you_…_Of course I _don't_…"

She glared at him. "Then if you know, why do you think I don't want you to go fight in their stupid goddamned war? And furthermore, why would you do anything for them after what they did to you?"

He gave her a confused glare. God, he was an idiot sometimes. "It's not always about that, Cleo. And it's not always about what _you_ _want_, either."

She stared at him, wounded and silent, for just long enough that he obviously knew he'd said the wrong thing. He opened his mouth to amend that statement, but she was vaulting up and out of bed, gathering her clothes from the floor, mindless of her nudity.

"Cleo…" he caught at her arm and she snatched it away.

"Don't." She snapped, buttoning her dress from the top, keeping her eyes away from him while she was stepping into her shoes. "Don't even bother. You'll have to forgive my _stupidity_. Sometimes I forget just what kind of self-centered prick you are. I'd forgotten that you could care less about how anyone else feels about anything; especially how they feel about _you_. It doesn't make a difference to you."

He'd never handled personal criticism well; just that shot was enough to push him hard into the defensive. "Yeah, just how the fuck would you know what makes a difference to me?"

She was already opening the door to leave, turning back finally to face him, tears shining on her face in the glow of the fire. "Because," she whispered, her voice dry and brittle as old paper, "if I told you _I love you_, it wouldn't make any difference to you at all, would it?"

It was a question to which she clearly hadn't expected an answer; she stormed out and closed the door behind her.

And he sat there, stricken, staring at the door again much in the same way he had the last time she'd unceremoniously left his room but this time shaken beyond question. Shaken right down to the core so that he had to catch his hands together to stop them from trembling like that. Shaken to the point his heart was straining cold in his chest as he slowly reclined back down in the bed, alone now, which seemed fitting. In all the monumental moments of his life, it seemed that he'd been by himself. And now that someone had told him they loved him; however hypothetical and roundabout she'd made it sound, it only seemed appropriate that he was spending that earth-shaking milestone alone as well.

In anyone else's life, that moment would have likely been idyllic. Spent tangled together with another; passionate or warm or dramatic; not in the form of a verbal jab thrown as the last word in a fight and left hanging in the empty air and wasted on his gray, withered excuse for a heart.

But this wasn't anyone else's life. It was his. And when had _his_ life ever played out simply or easily or generally with any sort of luck or good fortune at all?

Right. Never.

Orphen curled on his side, pulling the blankets up over him stiffly. He should have known how much trouble he was really in when he kept continually breaking all his ironclad resolutions to stop this game they'd been playing. He should have known it could only get worse; culminate into a disaster. He should have known to stop before he hurt her.

He should have known to stop before he started getting too confused about all the suffocating feelings that had been long sleeping and forbidden. They weren't allowed because he owed them to someone else. And they weren't allowed because whenever he got too emotional, he started getting hopelessly perplexed as to who was who and where was what and what was when. It was a problem he'd dealt with in the years after leaving the Tower; lost and traumatized into a life filled with darkness and sins he didn't want to think about.

Staring wretchedly at the shut door, he imagined she was standing on the other side, waiting for him to answer; even though he'd heard her little quick footsteps all the way down the stairs. He closed his eyes, and replied anyway, more to himself than to her. More a resolution than anything. More a desperate denial than reality. But it didn't matter anyway. With a miserable whisper, he said it aloud to the empty air, in hopes it would feel more like the truth if he gave it form and sound.

"…No, it wouldn't make any difference to me at all."


	9. The Hierophant

**Chapter Nine: The Hierophant  
**

"While the Kimurak Faith does indeed blame the creation of sorcery for the exile from paradise, they don't necessarily scapegoat sorcerers today with the same basic loathing as the Dragon Believers. In the shortsightedness of the Dragon Believers, they believe sorcerers to be accountable for the so-called heresy of the Tenjin."

Hartia took a long drink of his coffee and squinted at the boy across the table. The caffeine still wasn't taking the edge off his headache.

Majic was leaning on his hand, his elbow on the breakfast table with a troubled expression. "The Dragon Believers feel the Tenjin were heretical by mixing with common man."

"True. If the Tenjin had just stayed apart from us, the same as the other five dragon families, according to the Kimurak Scripture, sorcery would never have been passed down. The Gods, however, would still have been enraged by the creation of it. Man would still have been basically responsible for their ire whether races had mixed or not."

Taking a bite of his food, the boy chewed thoughtfully a moment. "But isn't it taught the six Dragon Families fled from the Giant's Continent to Kiesalhima and constructed the Ailmanka barrier in a way to protect themselves from the wrath of the Gods?"

"It is." Hartia nodded. "In fact, in that light, without the anger of the Gods, we would have advanced so little past those dark ages. Sorcery has been the light that has fathered technology for the common world."

Orphen glared at the two of them from his place looking out the window of the dining room, leaning on the window frame on an extended arm. It was raining to beat hell; a new storm having followed on the heels of the last front and blown in overnight. Meanwhile Hartia explained away; such an admirer of their former Master that he'd shaped himself into a close facsimile thereof. Born to teach, born to mentor. How did he not become frustrated with the endless questions? Especially Majic's questions. The boy would ask why all day long if Orphen didn't eventually tell him to shut up. But Hartia rubbing his own inadequacy as a teacher in his face this early in the morning just made his flesh crawl. It wasn't his fault he didn't have the patience to teach well, he'd been too quick a learner and his understanding too second-nature, so when others didn't catch on as quickly as he had, he just responded with frustration and an inability to teach in a more orthodox way.

Hartia wasn't telling him to shut up, though. Majic swallowed his food and continued his train of thought. "Isn't that like saying progress is against the will of the divine?"

"Astute of you, Majic. Indeed it is. In fact, the running metaphor in the story is that the Gods become angry when man climbs the steps between the mindless primitive and the all knowing deity, no matter how slight the progress. In the Chapter of Exile, the gods become incensed when the Dragon Families create sorcery and the divine becomes tangibly visible to their eyes. They must escape to Kiesalhima and protect themselves from obliteration by raising the Ailmanka barrier around the continent."

"But even in that story, without sorcery, humanity would have been destroyed. Without sorcery, the barrier couldn't have been raised."

"True. They trap themselves in with their new ways, sealing out the Gods and being left to fend for themselves and forge their own laws and morals. So goes the story of exile from paradise and being condemned to life as we know it."

"So is that a metaphor too?"

"Well—"

"It's _all_ metaphorical. There _are_ no Gods of the Giant's Continent." Orphen spat from the window, a coffee cup hooked tight in his hand as he watched the rain fall as quickly as his rapidly blackening mood. The turned toward the pair seated at the round, wooden table with a scowl. He was exhausted and sore and hadn't slept probably fifteen minutes straight all night; and to top it off, she wouldn't even look at him. He guessed he didn't really blame her. He hadn't been too keen on looking at himself in the mirror this morning either.

"There is no Giant's Continent and the Ailmanka barrier has been there for so long and was raised with such arcane magic that it doesn't register on analytical instruments. The entire Kimurak religion was just a way to frighten commoners into following the World's Law. It taught them that progress was against the will of the Gods so that no one could rise up to oppose the Church, so they'd continue emptying their pockets into the hands of the clergy and obeying them ruled only by their blind fear of the consequences. It's the best law enforcement there is. When people can't be civil and decent of their own volition, it's necessary to scare them into it."

He slowly walked over to the table, grabbing a chair and taking a seat, crossing his ankle over his knee and glaring at the two of them. "By making the Ailmanka Barrier a punishment, alienating and separating man from the Gods, the Church could further demonstrate how disobedience would not be tolerated. It wasn't until the founding of the Tower that someone contested their canonical worship and promotion of fear of the imaginary." There. He wasn't such a piece of crap teacher after all.

Majic responded hesitantly. "So the first war between the Church and the Tower was a holy war?"

"To the Kimurak Church, certainly." Hartia agreed. "It can also be said that the Church is only around today and holds any governmental power because of the vast wealth they control and the religious influence they have upon the high-born. Even their teachings promise salvation to those loyal to the old faith in the Arcana."

"The Arcana?" The boy leaned forward on both elbows. Orphen almost growled. The kid never stopped with the goddamn questions.

"Indeed," Hartia agreed. "The mysteries of the church. The circumstances in which the Gods will call those faithful to the old ways home to the Giant's Continent. I'm sure you can imagine just what the Tower thinks of that."

"But that's exactly what I was asking you, Master Hartia…how the Tower could call themselves aligned with Church when they have such a bloody history of disagreement."

Orphen snorted, tipping his coffee cup up to his mouth. "Such things have never stopped any political alliances before. Idealism has nothing to do with the balance of power. Fear and guilt have their uses in both politics and religion but seldom are they allowed to contradict each other enough to show just how fucking baseless those conflicts were. "

Far be it from him to suggest that an understanding couldn't be developed where there had previously been dissension, although with Cleo standing silent at the counter with her cup of tea and Reiki at her feet, there were doubts in his mind if that could really be true. _That_ crumbling alliance had haunted him all night. He couldn't even look at her without a cold clutch of regret winding around his lungs. So he just…tried not to watch her stirring her tea idly with that distant expression. Usually she only stirred it three times and tapped the spoon off.

And he had no idea why he knew that. He turned his attention back to the table in an unspoken huff.

Hartia was nodding, scraping his chair back to pour himself another cup of coffee. "You just find it difficult to understand how the Church would be ready to defend the Tower when in the past it's tried to destroy it. It's just part of their being equal branches of the federation and part of the balance of power, and political relationships rely on forgiveness. Affairs of state and treaties are funny like that. With the imperial parliament in upheaval, there are failsafes in place so the people aren't left floundering and ungoverned."

Orphen watched him at the kitchen counter while Majic continued the interrogation. He watched him nod and comment quietly to Cleo, who smiled sunnily, maybe even laughed, and laid a hand on Hartia's arm as she passed by him on her way out the kitchen door and into the hallway. And Majic was still talking. Maybe to him. He didn't know. Didn't care.

It was only a smile. Only a touch of her hand. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate. Even so, the ugliest feeling of possessiveness was welling up in him, like water filling a glass, and he felt his muscles tighten at it, his hand unconsciously close into a fist. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed at her for smiling at him like that or at Hartia for making some cute comment for her to smile at, which he had no fucking business doing whatsoever.

She never smiled at _him_ like that. All she ever did was fight with him. Maybe if she would have smiled at him like that every once in awhile, it wouldn't have taken him so long to figure out that she—

He blinked. What the hell was wrong with him? There was no reason for this. After all, she didn't belong to him. She didn't _belong_ to anybody. And if she did, chances are it wouldn't be him she belonged to anyway. Not like he'd want her to begin with.

Dammit. He had to talk to her.

While Hartia returned to the table, continuing his lecture on the governmental structure of the Imperial Federation of Kiesalhima and the checks and balances created by the three main branches of authority, Orphen quietly excused himself from the table, abandoning his coffee there, and followed her through the door, finding her already halfway down the corridor.

When she turned to face him, he figured he probably should have thought over what he was going to say. God knew, his improvisation techniques were decidedly lacking when it came to conversations of a sensitive nature, particularly where Cleo was involved. Particularly where this _situation_ with Cleo was involved.

"Something you want?" she said, her tone as clipped as he may have ever heard it. Oh yes, she was angry at him.

"Ah…"

"I don't want to talk to you," she interrupted, crossing her free arm across her chest. "Unless you're ready to admit what an unbelievable asshole you are, which you _aren't_."

Ouch. He glowered. "How do _you_—?"

"Well, _are_ you?"

"Goddamnit. How am supposed to say _anything_ if you won't let me?"

"No one's stopping you," she snapped haughtily, sipping her tea with an infuriatingly casual air that triggered in him an absurd impulse to kick her in the shin. Just to see her drop the cup and look at him all astonished. Of course, now that she'd given him free reign to speak, it had become apparent he had no idea what to say. He hadn't thought this through; he'd just followed her on an impulse, thinking he could say something to smooth things over, which, now that he thought about it, seemed like a pretty insane thing for him to think. It was his mouth that had put him in this mess to begin with.

"Well?" she said.

"I don't know!" he snapped. "What am I _supposed_ to say?"

She squinted at him. "Well, I guess it depends on what exactly you're trying to accomplish."

"Ugh." He leaned his forearm against the wall and dropped his head to look at the floor. Looking at her wasn't helping a bit. He figured he'd address the original issue they'd argued about, rather than what she'd said to abruptly end that discussion, which was the real thing on his mind. "Listen, I just… since when do you think…you think I'm going to go out there and get myself killed? Is that why—?"

"What do you care what I think?"

"Fuck. You're _impossible_." He sneered.

Cleo sneered back, further closing the distance between them with a sudden step forward, dropping her voice to a furious rasp. "_I'm_ impossible! _You_." She pointed at him accusingly. "You are _intolerable_. I can't take it. So help me, I've tried this long and I can't. God, I _hate_ you!"

She'd said it to him before. Hell, he'd said it to her before. But never had it so much felt like a punch in the stomach. He immediately couldn't stand how much he wanted her to take it back; to admit it was a lie. Gritting his teeth, he moved forward and grabbed her upper arm hard, pulling it to keep her from turning away.

"Not what you said last night," he hissed.

Her face seemed to blanch as she tugged against his grip, her voice a trembling whisper, eyes swimming in sudden tears. "Let me go or I'll scream. I _swear_ I'll scream."

He fixed her eyes with a livid, burning glare, squeezing her arm tight before he let it go, pushing her a back a half-step with the force of his hand releasing her. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered how before all of this had started, he used to go to great lengths to avoid touching her at all. He knew he couldn't be trusted with that freedom, even from the beginning. But it hadn't been because he thought he'd actually hurt her.

Before he could begin feeling guilty or even consider apologizing, a tear slipped down her cheek in the dimness of the corridor. "Who cares what I said? You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Oh. Much as he supposed he deserved that, he sort of felt like choking.

She must have noticed as he didn't—c_ouldn't—_answer right away. Orphen tried to effect a nonplussed expression, opening his mouth to deliver an equally painful assessment of her unwelcome and equally devastating impact on his life, but his attention was unavoidably derailed when the entire building rocked violently, a fierce tremor that shook the Inn to its foundation, up heaving the entire exchange and his train of thought in the process.

Paintings clamored off the walls and crashed to the floor. Cleo's little china teacup plummeted to the wooden floor in a wet explosion of white porcelain and fluid while Reiki dropped down on his haunches at the kitchen doorway, growling in his low, awkward sounding pitch.

It was just one hard slam, like a wall being kicked, and was followed by a fragile seeming silence that was eloquently broken by, of all people, Majic, calling from down the hall in the kitchen. "Master…!?"

Orphen let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and shoved away from the wall, leaving Cleo behind without a word. The rotund Innkeeper woman was standing braced in the kitchen doorway with a shocked expression, a hand resting on her chest as though to calm her heartbeat. He waved her out of his way to the entrance.

He opened the door and stepped onto the wooden latticed porch to an unexpected scene; a garrison of Kimurak Warrior Monks, armed to the teeth standing ramrod straight in the rain as though they didn't notice it, their frontline rifles trained straight at him as he came through the door. It was funny, in grim situations like this, he always had the strangest compulsion to laugh. Something was definitely not wired correctly in his brain.

Something that didn't make him want to laugh was the person standing in front of them all, a commander or communicator, it wasn't clear which. But what she would be doing standing here in front a regiment of armed forces from the Kimurak Church was not something to which he had an answer, but he gave him a nasty feeling in his stomach like he'd eaten something cold and squirming. Nevertheless, he tried to keep his voice casual. After all, he'd known her just about his whole life.

"You know…knocking on the door would have done the same job, Tish."

One corner of the tall, dark-featured woman's mouth turned up. "As much as I'd love to chat, little brother, this doesn't concern you. I'd hoped it would send everyone outside."

With a raised eyebrow and his thumbs hooked in his beltloops, he surveyed the straight-backed battalion behind her and their weapons pointed forward at the door, and blinked at her. "Your friends seem to think otherwise with where they're aiming. Want to tell me what the hell this is about?"

"Like I told you, Krylancelo, our quarrel isn't with you. You'd be correct in assuming the armament is indeed intended for you and your comrades, should you choose to give us trouble in our business."

An eyebrow went up. "What business would that be?"

Leticia frowned and rustled about a moment, then extracted and opened an envelope from beneath her cloak to read the contents aloud, tilting the paper just so to keep it out of the rain. "I've come to assist in the taking of Cleopatra Everlasting, youngest daughter of the Everlasting house, into the custody of the Kimurak Church by order of the Imperial Parliament and the Archbishop Lateralus Brahm."

Orphen blinked again. Maybe rain had gotten in his ear. What he'd heard couldn't be what she actually said.

Even his voice seemed a little unlevel. Maybe that name was just so saturated in his brain he was hearing it everywhere. "…Say that…again?"

"Out of my way, Krylancelo. Our business does not concern you." She stuck her document back in its envelope and moved to walk past him through the entrance, and his arm shot out, bracing on the doorframe and barring her way.

"Actually, yes. Yes, it does. You're not taking Cleo anyfuckingwhere, at least not until I hear what this is about. Right now, your business _is_ with me." He heard footsteps on the inn floor behind him.

Leticia took a step closer, her eyes narrowing just a hint as her voice dropped lower. "What are you, her keeper?"

"Got a problem with that?" he dropped his voice to match hers.

She gave tight-lipped smile. "Always."

"Krylancelo?" Hartia's voice came from behind him as he came up on the door. "_Tish_! What are you doing here? I haven't been able to return to the Tower…"

Leticia pointed up at Hartia. "The Tower of Kiba is under martial law; under occupation by the Kimurak Church on suspicion of exacting an unprovoked attack on the Imperial City Meverlenst and the seat of the Federation. No one may leave nor enter aside from authorized personnel."

Hartia's eyebrows went down. "And…_you're_ authorized personnel?"

"As Inquisitor, I have accepted responsibility for cooperating with the Church on the Tower's behalf," she stated smoothly, though her expression was becoming less calm with every moment, and she seemed to be avoiding looking either of them in the eye.

"This is ridiculous. So you're a traitor." Hartia said lowly, taking his hands from his pockets and clenching them. "And look at these soldiers from the Church. Did you say the Parliament sent you?"

"The Parliament has vested Emergency authority in the Bishop of the Church, as the Emperor is gravely injured and the Parliament itself incapacitated with loss and injury of its Lords to the point decisions cannot be made in the standard fashion. If you must know, this order comes directly from the Bishop himself."

"You don't seem to get it, I don't give a shit who told you to come here, I want to know just what the hell is going on," Orphen snarled, perhaps a little angrier than was warranted.

"All the youngest daughters of Noble Houses are being collected at this time to be kept in custody of the Church. I have no further information as to the reason."

"They only tell you so much, I guess, when you're a turncoat. Can't trust you with the rest?" Hartia spat, clearly more and more incensed at her blatant betrayal. His knuckles were bloodless where he clutched the doorframe.

Leticia rocked back and forth a bit. "I'm just here to do what is asked. If you guys give me any more trouble, someone's going to get hurt and I can't be held responsible for that. What you're doing is obstruction of a Federal Order. Just give me the girl." Her eyes came up finally, locking hard with Orphen's. "And once we have her, I suggest you turn tail and _keep as far away_ from the Tower of Kiba as possible. I can't guarantee that once I'm gone the Church will continue to have mercy on any sorcerer displaying that pendant. "

"Well. Then let's just ask Cleo if she'd like to go along with you and she can decide for herself. _Cleo_!" He raised his voice at the end, turning his head over his shoulder to project it back into the Inn.

After a moment she appeared in the foyer, still holding fast to that cup of tea, Reiki trailing fondly at her heels like a dog. She gave him a face that indicated she had no intention whosoever of continuing their conversation until she caught sight of Leticia behind Orphen's arm braced across the door, the obvious ire on Hartia's face, and the armed brigade of Kimurak Monks just in sight behind them. Immediately she took a cautioned step backward.

"What's going on?" she said softly, her arms crossing defensively across her chest.

"Don't suppose you're interested in going with _The Scream of Death_ here and all these nice men with rifles to an undisclosed location for an undisclosed reason?" he said sharply, meeting her eyes with a pointed stare that said a lot of things all at once. Not the least of which was his anger and the sting left by her very succinct evaluation of how intensely fucked up their relationship had become.

She processed that a moment before she sputtered and took another step backward. "M-me? N-no, what, _why_?"

He turned his head back. "Doesn't sound interested to me. How about you, Hartia?"

"Not at all," he confirmed flatly.

"Well, that about says it all then, Tish. She's not going anywhere. Maybe if you'd shown up without your pals and their firearms aimed at my face, I would been a little more open to sending her packing."

After a silent moment, Leticia turned her eyes up again. "Krylancelo. They _will_ kill you. This is bigger than you; don't make the mistake of throwing yourself into this. You have a bad habit of reacting before you think something through. "

Orphen leaned forward a bit. "Granted, but it looks like you did it for me this time," he hissed.

Leticia set her mouth in a hard, straight line; her shoulders dropping in a sigh as she took a few steps backward. "You leave me no option," she said, her hands moving toward the gray sky while Orphen whipped around.

"Get her upstairs!" he barked at Hartia, before launching out the door, the screen door snapping shut behind him. For once, Cleo didn't argue. As Hartia was turning, she swung around and thundered up the staircase, her hair flying behind her like a golden banner.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

She shook all the knobs in the upstairs hallway, finding all the rooms locked but Orphen's where she'd spent part of the night. She didn't think twice, didn't debate the invasion, instead she flew through the door, followed by Hartia, who bolted the door behind them, her hands shaking with adrenaline as she watching him turn the lock and set the chain. It was a moment before her head began to clear; and she looked around the room, wiping her palms on the hips of her jeans with a false display of collectedness as she made her way to the window and peeked anxiously through the half-open shutters to the altercation below. Orphen had already summoned his phantom blade, and was volleying an energy blast back with a hard swing. He threw a hand out in front of him, and though it was too far to hear him speak, Cleo knew the spell well. _ I erase thee, demon's footprints. _

"I don't know what she's thinking," Hartia commented softly, looking over her shoulder and through the window. "She's no match in a fight against Krylancelo and she knows it. He already proved that to her when he was chosen as Successor and not her."

Cleo just watched the chaos ensue below, almost with a numb objectiveness. Orphen running along the edge of the barrier Leticia had risen around them, calling up a shield and vanishing out of it; translocating, as Hartia had called it. A retina-searing flash of light from below (a Small Spirit spell surely) made her flinch before she finally processed Hartia's comment, and she glanced back at the erstwhile Black Tiger.

"What do you mean…successor?"

He looked back at her blankly. "The Successor of Razor's Edge. Hasn't he ever mentioned it?"

"…No. He…doesn't talk about anything personal very often. " Not that she cared. Starting now, she would make every effort just not to give a damn about anything that had to do with him.

"It's a shame," he said, leaning on the windowsill next to her, looking out almost anxiously. "He may have thrown away the title, but that title hasn't thrown away him. Much like his association with the Tower, I guess. He can't unlearn the techniques he mastered under that title. He endured the trials even though they almost killed him; he can't throw _that_ away. Though I've never seen him use a single one of them, he's still the successor."

"Of Razor's Edge? What does that mean?" She didn't know why she asked. She wished they _had_ killed him.

A jarring explosion below drew their conversation to an abrupt halt, attention snapping back down to the amber barrier encompassing the duel. Cleo recognized the spell as the Sisters of Destruction, and she leaned toward the window, squinting to see either combatant through the smoke. "I can't see them…"

"Careful." A familiar female voice spoke up, close behind her. _Leticia_.

Cleo began to turn toward the voice, but a black robed arm came around her throat and she staggered, Leticia pulling her back hard to unbalance her. She heard Hartia's cry of surprise and the shuffle and scrape of their struggle; all use for magic lost between them. The high whine of metal against metal punctuated the end of their scuffle, and Cleo sucked in a shocked breath, feeling the sharp jab of a dagger press insistently against the tender underside of her jaw.

"Let it be, Hartia," Leticia warned, hissing through her teeth. "Don't you understand that they're watching me? If I don't come through it's all ruined!" Clasping Cleo, she backed them both up towards the window and quickly recited the invocation to teleport back: "To the other side."

And in the space of a breath, a vicious wave of white hot piercing needles screamed through every nerve in her body as Leticia teleported her outside, leaving her gasping and tears of agony streaming down her face. What Orphen had said about translocating was exact: it felt like being torn apart. Yet when he had teleported her before, she'd felt nothing: just a warm, pleasant tingle that pervaded her limbs. Still mindless in the wake of the shocking, lingering pain, her knees buckled a little, and Leticia bore her up, twisting her arm back hard, wrenching her shoulder and jabbing the point of her thin blade up under her chin hard enough to pierce the fragile flesh.

Orphen's voice rang out through the clearing smoke. "'Porting out of the barrier, Tish? Shameful. Didn't Childman teach you anything?"

"I don't have time for this Krylancelo, you've held me up enough as it is; now you'll have to cut short your goodbyes," Tish called over the clamoring rain, digging in with the dagger a little harder as the smoke thinned enough for him to see them, and he froze where he stood; soaked through, eyes fixed on the thin line of blood running down Cleo's slender throat, on the tears on her face as they mixed with the rain, on the blazing fear in her eyes as they locked with his, pleading for rescue.

How could Tish have possibly been gone from the barrier long enough to 'port away and grab Cleo? He tried to swallow and found his throat constricted. He stared for a second, watching the rain rapidly paint dark spots on Cleo's jeans and blue sweater; the sheer panic in her expression inspired a cold dread, a bizarre version of that restless fear he felt sneak up on him more and more when he looked at her or thought about her a little too much, and he forgot his anger completely.

Inexplicably, all he could hear for just that cruel, terrible second of panic was an echo of her breathless voice in his ear. _"Krylancelo…"_

Before he could react, Tish mumbled a release, dropping the barrier, and the wet rumble of fifty Kimurak Monks running forward drowned out the roar of the rain. They affronted him in a loose half circle, rifles clicking as they armed them; bringing them all level with his chest, and he brought his hands up slowly.

"Tish…" he spoke darkly, shaking his head a little. "If something happens to her, I'm holding you entirely fucking responsible."

"If that's what you want."

Standing frozen, hands up, he took a long, slow breath. Held it. And then dropped low in a blink.

"Light!" he snapped sharply, his hands still raised, the brilliant surge dropped half the men, others flinching back, firing their shots into the empty air. He was already in motion, charging forward, producing a stiletto from his belt and bringing it down hard in his fist down into the flesh between the neck and shoulder of three successive Monks, who dropped with a splash into the mud while he was bringing up a leg and hammering it into another's chest, launching him back into another. A few more shots fired, and he was running. Cleo watched it all in horrified slow motion, still dizzy from the pain, shaking with fear.

"My guide is the death calling starling!" he spat, and the air split, a loud crack shaking the sky and earth with the violent change in air pressure and the earsplitting scream of malicious sound, more Monks dropping, holding their heads as Leticia dragged Cleo backward, cursing, murmuring under her breath.

As he spun around, Cleo could see it all unfold with a slow, nightmarish lurch; surreal and disjointed like a fever dream. A fallen Monk behind him had dodged the ultrasonic emission and was raising up on his knees, rifle in his hands, bringing it level at the sorcerer's back. She opened her mouth to yell, straining forward as though she could jerk away.

But it happened too fast. The hollow pop of the rifle fire drowned out any sound she may have made and he didn't, _couldn't_ turn fast enough to evade. Orphen jerked violently forward with the impact; his face going white, a fine spray of bright blood exploding from his chest as the bullet tore through. He was shot once, twice, and he dropped to the ground hard like a puppet with cut strings.

Cleo screamed. The raw sound of horror tearing from her throat and ringing through the humid air like a siren song in the fog of smoke and rain and she surged forward; the pain and panic forgotten, pulling her arms hard for just a moment before the edge of the dagger along her throat reminded her it wasn't strength that was holding her captive.

Leticia's arm clamped around her. "Hold!" she hollered, and the silence rang with the echoing ghost of gunfire and Cleo's frenetic sobbing. "I have the subject and am returning at once; further injury to anyone at this site is unwarranted. This regiment is to return to Taflem directly as commanded by the Archbishop and the Hand of Kimurak!"

And with that, Cleo heard words that inspired dread in more than one sense: "To the other side."

Cleo lurched in panic, terrified of another example of that unreal pain and of being taken away just when he needed her. Self-interested prick or not. The tears tumbled down her face, throat clogged with fear and grief and the maddening, white-knuckled desire to run to him. Minutes before she'd been swearing him off like an addiction. Days before she'd almost been ready to make the choice to never see him again and then couldn't. She wouldn't have that choice made _for_ her if he died. She couldn't let that horrible lie be the last thing she said to him.

She screamed. "**ORPHE**—!!"

And even before the final syllable had flown out from her trembling mouth, she was gone.

From his place in the mud, the cold rain hammering on his back with merciless gravity, a lake of hot blood spreading steadily under him as he rode out an intense wave of nausea at the smell of rain and smoke and blood, he'd heard her voice. Floundering for consciousness in a fog of red agony, when he'd heard that shrill, desperate ejaculation of his name that cut short, a few things became apparent.

That they'd taken her. That he was a failure. That the cramping, cold agony wrenching up his spine was either a harbinger of death, or was just ruthless regret. And that she was right. He really was the worst thing that could have ever happened to her. He couldn't even be counted on to save her when she needed him. Thoughts came in tiny, short moments of clarity. He tasted blood. He heard the sloshing of wet footsteps running toward him, and the garble of voices mixed with the relentless hiss of falling rain, but they faded in and out.

"Master…!" Majic's voice reached him, strident and fraught with dismay, though he couldn't see him. Someone was pulling him up, and the knifing pain reappeared, clawing up through him with pitiless fury that made him gasp incoherently before a dark oblivion swallowed him whole.


	10. Justice

**Chapter Ten: Justice**

All he could smell was blood, and he was going to throw up.

The problem was that it was a difficult to communicate that, and he'd be damned if he was going to throw up and have anybody know about it. The pain was blistering, his spine felt hammered out of molten iron, all his bones white hot and his flesh melting off of them like candle wax. He was floating, being carried actually, through an open doorway and into the dark. They stretched him out on a bed, divested of its top covers, and he felt his arms being straightened out and an annoying pricking pain in his elbow joint that faded as suddenly as it appeared.

He heard someone, calling out for boiling water and cloth; the snip of bloodsoaked fabric being cut away, the metallic shuck of the drapes being snapped open to provide more light.

"The first bullet went right through." He didn't recognize the voice. It dipped in and out, and he couldn't see. When he opened his eyes, it was like looking through dirty glass, everything mottled and indistinct, like the reflection of a face in water. Every breath was screaming torture, and all he could do was choke on the misery that welled up in his throat and begged him to cry out.

"This one, though." He felt a prod on his side, near the bottom of his ribs, and he sucked in a sharp breath at the spike of pain, which only made it worse. "That one's still in there. We'll need forceps."

A steaming cloth was pressed against the gaping hole in his chest, just above his heart, pressing hard to contain the pulse of bright blood that tumbled freely like unrolling ribbons down his chest and he felt a pained hiss bubble up out of him at that more than he actually heard it. The heat of the cloth made him realize how cold the room was; how cold _he_ was when only minutes ago he could barely think past the searing hellfire in his veins. Seemed weird.

"Can't you heal the wounds, Master Hartia?" That young voice sounded distinctly stressed. He couldn't see who was speaking, but the pitch of the voice was familiar. Komikron? Why would Komikron call Hartia a master of anything? No, no. Besides, this kid sounded much too nice, and Komikron was an arrogant, bossy little fuck that was always trying to outdo him. Wasn't he?

"I hope to…" The sound of tearing fabric. The scuffle of shoes on the floor around him. "But we don't want to close them around a bullet, Majic; and the spell won't take without—God—they have to get this _bleeding_ to slow…"

The voices were garbling up; shrinking and reverberating like they were walking far down a long tunnel as they spoke, and the longer he lay, he dizzier he became, the more he felt like vomiting, and the more he couldn't remember how he'd gotten in this mess in the first place.

He thought maybe it'd had something to do with a girl, but that didn't seem right. Since when would he go get himself shot for some woman? He had more sense than that. He'd be willing to admit he didn't always think things out properly first, but he certainly wasn't that big a goddamn fool. Unless it was Azalea, he guessed. And he was pretty sure it wasn't.

Then what was it he was so troubled about? Why did he feel so panicked to get out of here? Where was here? And why was it so cold?

Krylancelo couldn't remember what it was, and as a cold metal point dug cruelly into the wound in his side to pry out the bullet (Bullet, was it a bullet? Had he been shot? Who would shoot him?), he slipped soundlessly under the black surface of unconsciousness.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Honestly, Majic couldn't stand the sight of blood, much less the blood of someone close to him; someone who was the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother. Despite a bright disposition and an affinity for making friends, he had never been close to many people. He was an only child, his mother having been lost to a weakness of the heart when he was only a young boy, and somehow opening himself to anyone after her death had just left a bad taste. It seemed unwise. Dangerous, even. Like it was only a matter of time until they left him too. And it was times like these that reminded him just how true that really was.

He hated the sight of his Master's face so white and unresponsive, his blood so bright on the sheets and towels and bandages and floor that it almost hurt his eyes. Healing his injuries had presented its own set of challenges, and by the time Hartia's mending spell had finally succeeded in closing the wounds, Orphen had nearly bled to death and Majic had almost passed out. Even hours later, Hartia, reclining in a worn olive green armchair by the fire, was still exhausted and magically spent; yet had not seemed to drop off for one moment of sleep, something which Majic only knew due to his equal inability to rest.

They both sat silently by the fire, listening to the rustle and crack of the burning wood; exchanging words every once in awhile, taking turns to check on Orphen, still passed out cold after the morphine injection the Doctor had administered before the impromptu surgery. The whole scene had made Majic whoozy and nauseous, through he hadn't taken his eyes away out of some strange superstitious self-righteous paranoia that told him his Master would die if he didn't somehow make sure everything went well. Not like he could do anything even if it didn't.

And so, while Orphen slept, Majic buried himself in a rune text, trying to concentrate and only finding himself reading the same lines over and over by accident, and eventually closing the book in defeat and grinding his palms into his eyes to clear away the images of the entire day that had started with one shock and ended with another. Of course, his thoughts throughout the evening had irrevocably turned to Cleo as well; inexplicably taken by Leticia by order of the Kimurak Church, which was strange and disturbing and _utterly_ beyond his comprehension. The raw, grieving sound of her scream for Orphen had resonated deeply with him, even more so because of what he'd seen transpiring between them such a short time before. He couldn't help but think of it: of what they could want with her; of what they might do to her; of how afraid she must be. Orphen's usual resolute confidence in a ring of battle had been noticeably shaken to the ground with the addition of a dagger to Cleo's throat, and had Majic not accidentally seen what he had the night before, he may not have thought as much of that perceptible stumble. Likewise, when he'd taken a desperate stab at fighting them, he'd been vicious with his magic, using far more energy than he usually would, even brandishing a weapon; he'd killed more than just a few, which was something that was still causing a stir out in the streets of Alenhaten. The authorities had already come and gone quietly, preferring to focus on the looming shadow of unrest that the Church's vulgar display of power had cast over the city, than the single victim of the violence.

Hartia crossed and uncrossed his legs restlessly, and Majic looked up to see him peering at the mantle clock. The hour had grown late, the rain slowed to an intermittent crawl, and Orphen had barely twitched a finger since before sunset. Still, his blood loss had been significant and magical healing of such injuries, as Hartia had explained in detail, was not an exact art. Supplementary means were often necessary to ensure the spell's effects took hold, and rest and medicine would still be required for the next day or so to ensure the wounds didn't reopen.

Unfortunately, if he knew his Master at all, when he came to, they'd likely have to tie him down to get him to rest.

And, almost as though he was reacting to those thoughts about him accumulating like smoke in the room, there was the rustle of shifting bedclothes from the dark edge of the room, followed by a choked grunt that brought Majic's eyes up to Hartia, who looked up over the edge of a dog-eared comic.

Raising his eyebrows, he gave a vague upward nod at the boy. "Your turn."

Majic set his closed text on the floor and stepped over it, rushing to the bedside to look down on his Master, lying inert and pale, his torso wound in white bandages, only the edges of violet bruises that ringed the gunshot wounds peeking out from under the scraps of cloth, livid even in the half-light of the dwindling fire. Though there seemed to be a grimace on his face, acknowledging the pain for the first time since he'd lost consciousness, he hadn't yet emerged from the morphine induced twilight.

It all made him extremely uncomfortable. He was just too still, too pale, and looking just a little too dead for the boy's comfort. Anxiously, he watched him for another moment before turning and returning to the fireside, where Hartia looked up as though for a progress report. Majic shrugged tiredly, slipping his hands into his pockets just to have somewhere to put them instead of wringing them together as he felt apt to do.

"He's not awake," he sighed, looking back over his shoulder with apprehension. "I wonder how long it will take for him to come out of it."

"It's not uncommon for someone to be out for hours after a trauma like that. He's doped to the gills." Hartia recrossed his legs and returned his attention back to the comic in his lap. "He probably needed the rest anyway."

The blond boy focused on the fire with a distant stare, finally returning to his seat. "He did."

"Oh?"

"Master hasn't been sleeping much, it seems. For the last few days I've noticed it."

The comic was laid down again, flat across his knees so that Majic could see a brightly colored, upside-down illustration of some sort of explosion lit up against a night sky with sound effects written in dramatic block letters that were too out of focus to read from his angle. "Did you ask him about it?"

"Of course not. I assumed he was sitting up thinking about what was happening in Meverlenst…"

Hartia gave a noncommittal shrug, leaning back into the armchair and stretching his arms over his head. "You're probably right about that. Though he left the tavern before I did last night; he had to have caught up a bit."

Majic shifted uncomfortably. "I guess."

"Though I know I've had trouble not focusing on it all. Since I haven't been able to return to the Tower, I've felt something has been awry. And the debacle today just confirms that."

"That the Tower attacked the city?"

Hartia's face took on a look of uncharacteristic furor that looked misplaced on his good natured features. "Of course not! That the Church is behind this!"

"But the Bishop has been given all authority in place of the Parliament, that's what Leticia said…"

"Gah, Leticia, don't remind me." He dropped backward in the chair again, scowling. "The Church is behind this, they're a revolting lot of power hungry opportunists, and they're lunatics to boot. Whatever they're up to, they're trying to pin it on the Tower. I wouldn't be even all that shocked if we found out it they were the ones that orchestrated the attack on Meverlenst."

Hartia paused meaningfully before his expression grew grave." I don't know what they could want with Cleo, but I tell you, it can't be anything good. I'm genuinely worried about her safety."

The boy's green eyes turned over to the dark corner where Orphen lay indisposed. "Me too. When Master wakes up, he's going to be furious."

"Krylancelo? I thought they didn't get along."

Ugh. Majic didn't want to go down this path of conversation, mostly because he was a horrible at hiding things and was even worse at lying, but also because he was worried sick about her as well, and talking about it made it worse. If Orphen was like a surrogate brother, certainly Cleo had a place in his heart as the older sister he'd never had; bossy and unreasonable as she could be. Talking about it just made him think of all the things that could be happening to her. He averted his gaze back to the fire, just trying to find _something_ to look at.

"They don't," he said. Which was true. Mostly.

Hartia looked at him a moment. "Well. Krylancelo's peculiar approach to personal relationships never did quite make sense to me. Not like it's any of my business, but I guessed that he must not despise her as much as he lets on, since he's let her tag along with him for what…like two years?"

Majic could already feel his face burning. He hoped the low light could veil it. "Something like that."

"Is there something going on with them?" He said this with an almost scandalized tone, as though he'd have never thought of it in a million years; as though the possibility hadn't been about the most obvious thing in the world.

Majic almost choked. The truth was that he was dying to talk about it with somebody; but somehow it didn't seem right to do so. Not right now anyway. Maybe he was just afraid his Master would wake up just in time to hear him admit to what he'd seen.

"I think it'd probably be obvious if there was," he said evasively, hands now fists in his pockets, leaning back as far into the spine of the armchair as he could, trying to look relaxed. "I can't imagine."

He hadn't said no. It wasn't _really_ a lie.

Now it was Hartia who cast his eyes over to the dark, silent bed, as though checking for any movement. "I guess so," he said. "Though I suppose I also understand how he'd be upset at her having been taken like that. He is sort of responsible for her _safety_."

Ah, a light at the end of the tunnel. Majic nodded. "Master takes that sort of thing very seriously."

Hartia scowled suddenly. "Sure. He also has a terrible tendency to blame himself for every single unfortunate thing that happens around him, whether he could have done anything or not. If something happens to her…"

The boy frowned, fire shadows flickering on his face. "I know…Master Hartia…do you have any idea at all what they could want with Cleo? Of all people, why…why her?"

"Well, to be honest, I really can't tell you. Nothing obvious comes to mind in the least. Daughters of Parliament Lords would be one thing, I guess, but to seek out Cleo just for coming from a noble line…"

"Cleo's father was a Lord of Upper Parliament before he died."

"Indeed, Margrave Everlasting. I remember his assassination. Poisoned, I think he was; or at least that was the rumor. That was about, what, four years ago though. I can't see why bloodline has any import over political ties. If her father was still alive, I'd expect it was a leverage ploy, some kind of blackmail, that kind of thing. But there's no leverage there. I don't mean this in a mean way, but there are no major players that are affected by Cleo being held captive; and the Church already has Parliament in their pocket besides…" Hartia gave an irritated shrug. "I don't know. I guess I'm just thinking aloud. I just don't know what to think."

Majic leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. "The Kimurak Church…you really think it's some kind of setup?"

"Absolutely. I don't claim to understand what's happening and what they're doing, or why for that matter, but there are some things I do know about the Tower and its place in this world, much as Krylancelo would like to believe that I'm utterly brainwashed and deluded, and the Tower would never have so blindly attacked a city like that for political reasons. No regard was paid for human life. Parliament Lords and mothers, _children_, noble wives, beggars…they all paid the same price for living in that city. And whether I'm believed or not is of no consequence. I _know_ it."

He turned his face to the fire, abandoning his worn magazine across the arm of his chair. "I know in my soul that as questionable as the Tower's actions have been in the past, this is not their work. Call me biased if you like, Majic, but I told you this morning, the Church capitalizes on fear and submission, and I don't trust them. The more I heard they were in charge of occupying the Tower, that all emergency authority has been vested in the frigging Church in this crisis…the more it just cements it for me. It's a power play. It's deep corruption in the fucking system. Oh! Sorry!" Hartia's hand came up against his mouth at his unexpected curse with a shocked expression, the anger draining from his face in a blink.

Majic made no mention of Hartia's supposedly objective view of the Church that morning. The boy smiled, waving a hand as though to clear the air. "Used to it."

"Of course. I guess that's right…Krylancelo certainly has acquired a colorful vocabulary these last few years." He sighed; seemingly keen on changing the subject to something that incited a little less rage for the time being.

"I can't imagine him any other way," the boy laughed softly.

"That's funny, I'm still getting used to it a little. He used to be so quiet. Although he's definitely calmed down since—"

Another groan sounded from the dark edge of the room, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Their eyes turned toward the dark again, and Hartia gave a relieved wink. "Well, you know what they say about speaking of the devil…" he said, rising from his chair and making his way to the bedside.

If Majic had disliked the pale countenance of his Master earlier in the night, he found he liked the look of him even less after he'd awoken. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, depthless and black like patent leather, his brow pinched, his pallid skin dewy with sweat that glittered in the flamelit dimness of the inn room. His gaze sank over to them as they came into his field of view, a feverish, feral flash in his eyes that reminded Majic of a wild animal caught in one of those claw traps his father used to use in the garden behind the tavern. Bagup Lin had caught more than his fair share of vegetable patch prowlers, all snared painfully and gory in snapping steel teeth. Oftentimes they were still lurching and struggling in the snare when they found them in the morning, all of them with that same glossed, black, frenetic glitter in their eyes that Orphen had now.

He blinked in slow motion up at them. "It's cold…" he rasped, his voice just a burned out husk of its normal pitch.

Hartia soundlessly reached down and laid the back of his hand on his forehead, and Orphen jerked away from it.

"What the fuck!?" he snapped, turning his head to the side, listlessly bringing up a hand as though to shield himself from any further invasion. Obviously, he was a little jumpy.

Majic stood by, wringing his hands together and Hartia turned away, leaning close to the boy and speaking in a low tone. "He's running a pretty high fever. It's fairly normal after using sorcery to heal wounds of that severity. Think of it like the body fighting off an infection, working overtime to mend tissues, that kind of thing. I'm going to go down to the kitchen and get a basin of cold water." He rose his eyebrows a bit, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You talk to him a bit, ok? Keep him awake if you can."

With that, Hartia was out the door, leaving the boy to interact with that wild animal look that somehow made him feel more uncomfortable than he really wanted to admit. He really didn't know why. He supposed it was just that Orphen didn't seem quite himself in an unnatural, delirious way, which was unnerving no matter how he looked at it.

"M…Master?"

His head turned towards the sound of his voice, his eyes snapping to him almost as though he hadn't seen him standing there. "Uh?"

Geez, what was he supposed to say? "Huh-how are you feeling?"

He felt it was a valid question, though obviously stupid. How did it look like he felt? Like doing a cartwheel? Sheez, at this rate he'd have him angry in minutes.

Orphen seemed to stare through him for a long moment before he replied. "Like shit."

He nodded his blonde head, "Sorry…"

Those feverish eyes seemed to be scanning the room behind him warily, giving Majic a paranoid compulsion to look behind him. Before he could ask, he spoke again.

"Where is she, Majic?"

He swallowed the reflex impulse to ask 'who' to stall for time. He wasn't sure it was best to discuss this now. He'd hoped to avoid upsetting him in this state when already he felt a tad ill at ease. Honestly, he'd hoped Orphen remembered that Cleo had been taken despite his efforts, so that he didn't have to be the one to tell him she was gone. Too late now, he guessed.

"She…I don't know. I don't know where they took her, Master." That seemed like a passive enough statement.

His eyes burned up at him for a moment before suddenly dropping closed, his head tilting back on the pillow. "Son of a bitch," he wheezed.

"I'm _sorry_, Master." Maybe it hadn't been passive enough after all.

"Don't apologize, it's not your goddamn fault, it's _mine_."

"No, no, really it's not." Majic fluttered his hands around. "There were so many of them and they…"

"She shouldn't have been here in the first place. She should have stayed behind."

"That's not fair. Cleo's always done exactly what suited her and no one can tell her differently. Even if you asked her…told her not to, she would have come along anyway…"

"I _didn't_ tell her," he spat. "That's not the point. It's my fault she even _wants_ to come along, isn't it?"

Well, that was rather honest. Majic couldn't help but be just the slightest bit intrigued with that loose lipped statement. "I suppose that's true, Master. But there's nothing you could have done about that…"

Orphen let out a peculiar, quick exhale that was eerily close to a laugh, but didn't reply right away, instead seeming to wince against the pain he hadn't mentioned but no doubt was beginning to feel. The laugh must have brought his attention to it.

"Does it hurt? Can I get you some medicine?" Majic was already reaching for the bottles on the side table, but Orphen waved a hand.

"No, it's good. I deserve it," he said through grit teeth, eyes still closed, a drop of sweat trailing down his damp temple, his dark hair wet with it.

Rather than argue, he opted to change focus. "Master Hartia is coming with cold water to bring down your fever."

"Hartia is not going to fucking sponge bathe me to wellness."

"I don't assume he would…but at least…"

His eyes opened again. "Leticia… I forgot. She said the Church had occupied the Tower. She had to have taken her there, to Taflem…"

"Master, she also said that you had better keep as far away from the Tower as you could."

"The fuck. Like I'm supposed to just obey her like a fucking dog. Traitor bitch, she's just a mouthpiece of the Church anyway. She warned them about me. Running around outside their barrier, not sealed up like the rest of the Tower, and they want me to stay the fuck out of it." He raised his eyebrows, barely sounding like himself, despite the language. "And you know, I _would have—_Komikron was wrong about her…"

At the abrupt tangent, the blond boy's brow furrowed. "Who's—"

The door opened again, and Hartia returned with a porcelain basin under his arm. "Still awake?" he called.

"Ah—yes..."

"Hope I didn't miss anything too important," he said with a genial smirk at Majic, setting the bowl on the table, submerging a washcloth and wringing it lightly.

Orphen had turned his head away obstinately, and lurched when Hartia unceremoniously dropped the cold compress right on his face. With a snarl, he reached up and flung it off.

"Complain all you like, Krylancelo, if you don't get that fever down I'll have to bring the doctor to do it for you. I needn't remind you how _immensely_ you'd enjoy that."

The sorcerer shot the other a wilting glare, before snatching up the cold cloth and slapping it to the back of his neck, weakly attempting to sit up and wincing under the weight of the pain.

"You've been left a rather impressive array of medication, if you're interested."

"No," he growled, sinking back to his pillow, exhaling hard once he settled down. Hartia draped another icy towel across his forehead, and he grunted.

"No medicine?" Hartia shrugged. "I suppose you always were a glutton for punishment."

"Did I get _any_ of them? The monks?"

"Oh several. Just not all of them, as you would have preferred, I'm afraid."

Majic knotted his fingers together and sat on the bench at the end of the bed, listening to the rustle of the fire, crackle of the pine logs, the occasional hiss of tree leaves outside shaking in the wind, the sound of strained respiration . It was several minutes before any of them spoke.

"We have to go back." Orphen muttered, almost as though he'd meant only to think it.

"Go back?"

He opened his glassy, fever-shine eyes and stared at his apprentice. "Back to Totokanta."

"I thought you wanted to follow them to Taflem, Master. It'll take days to backtrack that far."

Hartia stood, having finished adding wood to the stove, dusting his hands on his robe. "We could 'port there," he said, coming back to the bedside and pulling up one of the wooden chairs from the table. "In fact, now that I'm thinking straight, we could have done that yesterday to get _here_. _Why_ did you have me walking through that rain _all day_?"

"Because." Orphen snapped, pulling the cloth from his neck and flipping it over to the cooler side before replacing it. "We were in the company of two people who are not able to teleport themselves."

"Just not willing to teleport with Cleo, weren't you? I could have taken her with _me_."

Orphen sat up so quickly and with such a livid expression that Majic almost threw himself between them, grateful in a strange way when his Master cringed and sucked in a pained breath; apparently having forgotten such a movement was bound to be excruciating. But he wouldn't soon forget exactly what that reaction told him. As though he didn't already know.

"Keep doing that and you'll be bleeding again in no time. Do you want those wounds to reopen?" Hartia scolded, apparently clueless that he'd just narrowly been spared.

"_Fuck_," he ground out. It was Orphen's expletive of choice. He used it for everything. This time it barely seemed to suffice, as perhaps Majic had just become so accustomed to hearing it that it had lost some of its initial impact. He remembered when he'd first met him he'd been sufficiently shocked at his occasional choice of language.

Majic picked up a compress from where it had fallen when he'd bolted upright; the damp cloth was as hot as if it had been steeped in warm tea, so he brought it back to the basin and submerged it. Behind him, Hartia was forcing Orphen to drink water and telling him they weren't going anywhere until the healing spell had completely taken, which meant at least late morning; about a day after he'd been wounded.

"I don't expect we have that sort of time," his Master spat, in a little more venomous a tone than he may have normally used with his friend.

"Be that as it may, you won't _have_ any time if you don't lay back and not push yourself. Why won't you take one of these sedatives?"

"All emergency power vested in the Church. _The Kimurak Goddamn Church_. There's something intensely fucking rotten going on."

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

Orphen turned a contemptuous scowl at Hartia. "Fuck the medicine. The Tower being occupied by the Church? All executive power delegated to the Bishop? And they're detaining nobility with use of deadly force?" He wheezed that last part, bringing a hand up against the bandages on his chest. "_Why_?"

Majic handed the refreshed compress to Hartia, who wove it around a bit by its edges to cool it further by fanning it through the air before folding it and dropping it on his friend's head. "I'm as baffled as you, though I agree the inclusion of the Church in such a capacity has me extremely nervous. I suppose you'll retract your earlier statement about suspecting the Tower?"

"After today…how couldn't I? What's Leticia…that bitch, how could she? Komikron was wrong about her, you know, Hartia. Don't you remember how…blindly he defended her against Azalea?" He was speaking a little slower. A little softer.

"Yes," Hartia said quietly, almost with a placating tone. "By bringing up that she wished she hadn't been born with sorcery in her bloodline, though, it only made Azalea more pissed off at her. Strange how things turn out."

"Hunh." Orphen grunted. His eyes had dropped closed. "Yeah. Tish working as Tower Inquisitor. Azalea raising a child. And you and I…here…and Komi…" His voice sank in volume until it dropped away completely.

Silent minutes passed. The wind blew.

"…dead." Hartia finished the sentence for him.

"Mmm." Orphen agreed, half asleep, obviously fading fast now. His head was tilted to the side.

"Krylancelo, why do you want to go back to Totokanta?" He said this quietly and smoothly, almost like an incantation.

It look the recumbent figure in bed a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was soft; speaking out of a dream. "I have to talk to Cleo's mother."

If Hartia was surprised, he didn't show it. "About what?"

"I want to know if they came looking for her there first, or if they knew to come straight to me."

"What will that accomplish?" Smooth. Water sliding over rocks.

"And I want her to know I tried to save her…" His voice was almost a whisper. "And I'm sorry…"

Hartia waited a moment before prodding him. "Krylancelo…?"

Now he didn't respond at all.

Majic approached hesitantly, a spike of panic making his heart gallop. "…Master Hartia, is he alright?"

Hartia just seemed to be looking at the floor, his brows furrowed in thought. "I put laudanum in his water. "

"Ah…oh." So he'd drugged him. He figured it only made sense. He wouldn't have taken anything otherwise. "So he'd answer your questions without getting angry?"

"Uh? No…it's just…you know him. We'd practically have to bind him just to get him to rest until morning. He could barely even stay lying down. And the pain was only going to get worse. It's just best."

"So if they knew to come straight here to find Cleo, did you tell them where to find us?"

"Nuh….no! God! You're starting to sound like him!" He pointed at the bed. "Why would I do that?!"

"You sort of sounded like you were trying to get information out of him."

In brighter light, one may have said that Hartia blushed. "Ah. Well. Not really. I was more curious to see what he might say about Cleo. You know. What we talked about earlier. But that's not why I gave him the sedative!"

With wide eyes, Majic jammed his hands in his pockets again. "Oh—that." Now it was Majic's turn to flush a bit. He couldn't even say what he was thinking. He wasn't even sure how to say it.

"Maybe. I don't know. I just had a feeling that… I just never thought I'd see the day Krylancelo went and got himself shot up trying to save someone. Someone that wasn't Azalea, I mean. Especially Cleo, of all people, who he can't seem to get along with for twenty consecutive minutes even when forced."

"Oh, so what you said about teleporting Cleo…"

Now Hartia smiled. "_That_ was kind of interesting, wasn't it?"

The boy almost laughed, though as he considered it, his smile faded as he watched him sleep, bandaged and bruised. There was undisputable evidence in his mind that there certainly had been something going on between them, after all, he'd seen it with his own eyes. Surreal as it had seemed, he could only take what he'd seen and follow that to the most logical and obvious conclusion. He wasn't sure if the word _lovers_ would be appropriate to describe their relationship, though that had been the word that immediately came to mind. Funny though, if he did use that description, he certainly wouldn't have been the first to liken their mercurial behavior to a pair of quarrelling paramours. One minute they bordered on flirting, the next they wanted to kill each other.

Well. Majic wasn't stupid. He'd been travelling with them a long time. One thing he'd learned in the last few years was that the old adage was true: actions really did speak louder than words in certain cases. The look someone gave another while they weren't watching could say more about how they felt for that person than if they were simply asked. His Master and Cleo were a walking, breathing example. No matter what either of them said, they didn't hate each other.

Well. It wasn't for him to say. None of his business, really. But one way or the other, lovers or not, Orphen's inability to prevent Cleo's capture on such a hopeless scale…well, it had to bother him. It had to hurt.

He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Hartia that Orphen took certain responsibilities very seriously; and his and Cleo's safety was one of those. With his penchant for blaming himself deeply for his personal failures, though often they were completely beyond his control, this would be the sort of pain the laudanum couldn't touch, pain he couldn't hide from. Not even in his sleep.

He thought about what he'd said about not taking any medication. That the pain was good. That he deserved it.

But he didn't. Cleo would hate that he was in pain. Cleo would be sitting by that bedside if she could, knotting her hands and biting her lip, looking for all the world like she just wanted to do something to help him but couldn't think of a thing. Cleo wouldn't _blame_ him.

Majic just wished he could tell him that.


	11. The Empress

**Chapter Eleven: The Empress**

Though with an obvious hunch of pain, Orphen was up late the next morning, coughing and groggy, dizzy and still vaguely feverish; but still intent on backtracking to Totokanta to visit the Everlasting estate with the news of Cleo's enigmatic abduction. Much as Majic sympathized with his reasons, he couldn't help but wonder if it was wise to be travelling so soon after such a debilitating injury. He'd sat up most of the night, thinking, stoking the fire and listening to the wind outside and the occasional rustle of bedclothes from the dark edge of the room.

Even drugged, Orphen had slept as fitfully as he usually did. The boy was accustomed to that, it didn't worry him anymore. Often he'd be roused late at night in their encampment, finding his Master sitting up with insomnia or jerking awake suddenly; recalling moments and images in his sleep Majic was certain he didn't want to know about. It was times like those that he was reminded just what type of life Orphen had lived before he'd arrived in Totokanta to stay at his father's Inn, nearly three years ago now.

Though he didn't talk much about his past, other than the general story about having been at the Tower until Azalea's accident and ultimately leaving the school behind to find a way to restore her to her former state, there had been few details he was willing to part with. From what had been squeezed out of him, Orphen had lived at an orphanage in Laindast with Azalea Kettoshi and Leticia Macredy until the age of four, at which time he'd been apprenticed to the Tower of Kiba. He had no clue what had happened to his parents or where he came from. His true name was Krylancelo Finrandi, a name which indicated he must have come from the northeastern shore of Kiesalhima in Aoivanna Province; as though his physical appearance didn't suggest this enough with his olive skin tone and dark features that were distinctive to the people of that area. He looked nothing like the fair-haired, blue-eyed people from the southwest of the continent, something which called attention to him in their travels even before the pendant from the Tower gave him away officially as an individual of whom to be leery. It seemed as though life at the Tower had been at least marginally pleasant until the accident that tore him apart and prompted his abrupt departure at age fifteen.

They didn't discuss it, but it went without saying that a fifteen year old boy, sorcery prodigy or not, on the streets fending for himself must have gone through difficult times. Orphen became very guarded when the subject was broached, so Majic didn't ask anymore. There were times, though, that he wanted to know. Just out of curiosity, he guessed. It was hard to feel close to someone when they were so wary about revealing anything about themselves; though through the years of his apprenticeship it had happened nonetheless. There had been other things to talk about, and there was no substitute for the sort of inevitable bonding that came from travelling together for so long. He supposed the same could be said for his Master and Cleo…though both would vehemently deny that.

They'd left him alone to bathe and dress, and he'd descended the staircase about a half hour afterward, the blood and dirt cleaned from the shag of his dark hair, wearing his tattered red headsash and some of his more damage-friendly clothing; combat attire possibly garnered from the Tower; all black rawhide, beltstraps and silver buckles, his pack slung over a shoulder. His favorite shirt and vest had met their downfall during the shooting, the vest torn apart with bullet holes and the bloody shirt cut off his body before treatment. Majic figured it all also helped hide the fact he was heavily bandaged beneath his clothing, although the bandages peeked out at his unbuckled neckline where they secured at his throat.

From his slightly bent posture and the drawn, sullen expression on his face as he descended the stair, Majic guessed Orphen's disposition would not be particularly amicable this morning, and with good reason. He'd complained of waking with a massive headache but had taken no medicine or eaten anything; despite Hartia's disagreeably jovial attempts to get him to do so. Now as he regarded his apprentice standing in the lobby with the wooden floor still splattered in a trail of blood leading up the stairs from when he'd been carried in, that black gleam not yet quite vanished from his eyes, the boy knew from experience to say as little as possible. Hartia, however, did not seem to ascribe to that strategy.

"Hey, look at you," he said, slurping coffee from an orange and white china cup. "One might think you're planning on getting yourself shot at again."

"Probably better that than to assume I won't." His voice still sounded raspy. But it had been a rough night.

"Still set on going to Totokanta, then?"

Orphen dropped down the last few stairs, nodding; black gloved hand gripping the banister tight. He was looking at the rusty splatter trailing across the floor. "Do we owe them something for the mess?"

Hartia wove a hand. "I already spoke with the Innkeeper. She was just relieved you weren't dead and that one way or another, you made the monks turn tail. The Kimurak Church isn't very popular here in the south."

"It's not particularly popular anywhere except Kimurak and Meverlenst. They're not doing themselves any favors popping up with armed regiments and pointing their fingers."

"Probably a Bake Sale would get more people on their side. We should suggest it."

He didn't even acknowledge Hartia's unwelcome attempt at humor. "What about the Doctor?"

"A friend of Stephanie's. She took care of it."

The mention of the scholar peaked Orphen's attention noticeably. "Stephanie was here? How'd she know?"

"Who else could cause that big of a commotion in such a short time? Alenhaten's got population, but it's not that big. She was just arriving when you went down and she sent for her associate. You've got the luck of a cat. 'Course, the Doctor wouldn't really been able to do much for you without a little help from yours truly. That first bullet went through your lung, you know." Hartia set his cup on a console table, casting a haughty smirk up at him on the stair landing.

Orphen scowled as though he disagreed. "Well, that explains the cough."

"Yeah, you're welcome."

"Can we get the hell out of here, then?"

"Whenever you're ready, I guess. You want me to take Majic?"

"I should probably do it; he's never been translocated before."

"How long's he been studying again?" An impatient gesture accompanied that question.

"Coming up on three years. Not long enough."

"Aw, it's not that bad, he'll have to do it sooner or later."

"I've known him longer, it'll be easier on him if I do it."

Hartia brought a hand up against his neck and cracked it. "Fine, fine; just trying to help you out, I should know better. I'll see you in Totokanta." He picked up his pack from a wing chair by the landing and swept a hand through the air in front of him in what seemed to be an exaggerated huff. "To the other side."

In a breath, he was gone. And with all that talk of it "being easier" on him, Majic was a suddenly little apprehensive. "Is it going to hurt, Master?"

Orphen gave a noncommittal shrug, glancing out the front windows of the lobby and scowling at the clear weather. "Some. It would be worse if Hartia took you."

"Why, is he bad at it?"

"No, no, it's not so much that…It's just the physics of the whole thing," he said, sounding exhausted despite all the sleep, leaning on the banister as he spoke. "Black magic works through energy and affects the spirit of things; white magic works on matter. Do you remember when we talked about that?"

Majic nodded, tightening his hold just a little around Reiki, who'd been whining and sulking around in Cleo's absence all night and morning and had finally settled on Majic as a foster guardian earlier in the day. It was almost funny how sorcery lessons just popped up at the weirdest times; as though it only occurred to Orphen to teach his apprentice something when they happened upon it.

"Yes. When we talked about incantations and giving magic form through a proper conduit... That's why you don't use the same wording as Hartia does for the same spell."

"Right." Orphen gave him little nod, his brow faintly furrowed. Majic again remembered the splitting headache he'd mentioned when he'd awoken and assumed it must not have been lessening. "Translocation is sort of a hybrid of both types, black and white; it plays off energy but because its goal is a very direct effect on matter, it complicates things a bit. In the same way if you went outside and tried to cast the same spell with two different incantations, one would have a more powerful effect depending on your own variables. There seem to be a lot of reasons why different words have different effectiveness for different people, but the Tower doesn't teach them."

"I noticed that. When I was there, they definitely stressed the use of the shortest possible versions."

"Well, those have their uses, but limiting yourself to them exclusively is a mistake. So, keeping that in mind…" He ran his hand through his hair slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, his palm coming to rest over one of his eyes. "Translocation also relies on variables: the most important being compatibility of energies; the caster and the object. This is more simple with inanimate objects. Trust me though, the first time you successfully teleport by yourself, you'll end up naked. Your clothes, your bag, jewelry…nothing comes with you until learn how to include them."

Majic swallowed a little thickly. He wasn't looking forward to that day. "But with people?"

Orphen pulled his hand away from his head finally, opening his eyes. "The compatibility of energies relies on familiarity, and personal relationships help establish that. Teleporting a stranger takes a lot of unnecessary energy to begin with, but also the effect is pretty severe on the object. After all, the spell rearranges all the cells and molecules in your body, charges them negatively to the extreme they are able to exist in two places at once, like electrons, then they switch over, recharge and rearrange. It's painful, to say the least, when someone you're unfamiliar with translocates you, particularly if it's forcibly. Your energies can't mesh well. So compatibility, familiarity and willingness are crucial."

Majic's eyebrows had drawn low about halfway through that explanation, his eyes dropped to the floor. "I see," he said softly. "Master…ah. I'm sorry to bring it up but…yesterday…"

"I know." He set his mouth in a grim line, looking out the window again and finally stepping off the flight landing. "You probably thought she was crying because she was scared."

"Ah-yes…I…Cleo doesn't know Leticia even as well as I do…from my time at the Tower, short as it was. Not to mention her being forced. It must have been horrible, then?"

A peculiar look passed over his Master's face for just a fraction of a second before he'd forced it away with a more annoyed expression. But he didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry, Master."

He practically jumped. "What for? Don't be sorry, it's not your fault."

"I know…it just…I know you must be upset about it..."

"Upset?" he snapped. "What makes you think that?"

Oh great. Good job. He knew better than to say loaded things like that. "Well, I know you don't particularly enjoy…"

"Losing?" He finished for him in a low voice.

"Wuh-well…kind of, though it wasn't at all a fair fight…and I know you feel responsible…" Now he was stammering all over the place, trying to backpedal. The boy was half-glad no one was here to see him get the tongue lashing that was likely to be coming up; and half-wishing someone would come interrupt them and save him.

"I _am responsible_, Majic!"

Majic held up his hands in a placating manner. "Ah…"

"I'd be _just_ as pissed off if it was you, you know!"

Well, that seemed out of place. He hadn't suggested anything otherwise, but he figured contesting it didn't seem particularly intelligent. "I know!"

Orphen's hand came up to his head again, his eyes squeezing shut. "Unh…"

"I'm sorry…"

"_Stop_ saying you're sorry. _Fuck_." He gripped his head a moment longer. "Let me get something from the kitchen…then we'll go."

"Alright…" Majic watched him walk slowly down the corridor and disappear through the swinging door to the dining area, exhaling a long sigh when he was out of sight. He was going to have to be more careful talking about Cleo than he'd thought. He'd even seemed to react strangely to hearing her name.

He wasn't really sure _what_ to think about that.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

The front parlor of Everlasting Manor was quiet and sunny. The first buttery rays of sunlight in days were streaming through the great dormer windows and soaking into the elaborate rug under the grand piano; catching bright on the silver frames lined up along the top of the instrument and lighting up the russett wood that constructed it.

It was a beautiful house, no one could contest that. Vaulted beam ceilings, cedar lined closets, hand-painted tiles, carved baseboards climbing eighteen inches up all the walls: little elaborate details of architecture that cost more money to build than most people could earn in a lifetime. Orphen couldn't even begin to imagine actually living in a place like this. It would be great for awhile, he supposed, though he also suspected he'd become bored with it, just like anything. He'd developed a bad habit of becoming restless after being anywhere too long; that year in Totokanta had nearly driven him off the deep end.

He supposed that was why _she'd_ wanted out as well.

He sat slumped over, his head in his hands, trying to keep his eyes closed and his thoughts clear of absolutely anything just for a few minutes, which was predictably impossible. He'd been struggling all morning just not to think about anything too much.

He didn't want to react. He didn't want to feel one way or the other about what happened. Not yet.

To call it a headache would be an insult. It was an epic, skull-shattering, throbbing warzone of pain. He imagined the inside of his head smoking and baked black like the burned-out husk of a building after an explosion. He felt it through his entire body like a shockwave with every quick beat of his heart, shaking through him like the rumble of a rushing flood. It was the feeling of worms burrowing through the big soft pile of his brain. Maggots rooting around. Beetles tunneling. A hammer tap, tap, tapping a long, hot nail into the back of his head.

Sighing, he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked around. Hartia was paging through a book, one from a bookshelf of about a thousand that all looked the same; red leather with gold stamped titles on the spines. Decorations more than literature. Form more than function. It was a rich-person thing, he supposed, to own books that looked like no one was supposed to read them. To own chairs that looked too expensive to sit on, raise daughters no one could ever really be good enough for.

Whatever that meant.

Majic was sitting quietly on the sofa, staring at his knees, probably thinking back to the translocation experience which, though not excruciating, had shaken him a bit with the vicious prickling, tingling feeling one gets when submerging frozen hands in scalding water. But he'd kept his mouth shut. Hadn't complained. Had barely said a word.

And Orphen just wanted this to be over. Maybe it had been a stupid idea, but it had doggedly haunted him until he'd given the intention voice. The fact that Cleo had given him the impression that her mother had forbidden her to continue travelling somehow because of him, the fact that she'd gone anyway, the fact that she'd said she had no other choice: they all were just items on a list of reasons why he felt obligated to tell her mother what had happened to her. Mostly, though, he wanted to find out if they'd come here looking for her first.

Because if they'd just come straight to _him_ for her…he had to think it was suspicious. It meant that there had been special attention paid to acquiring Cleo in their hunt for aristocratic daughters, rather than a campaign visiting residences on a list. It meant that probably it _did_ have something to do with him. He just didn't know what. Or why. What he did know was that he likely had Leticia Macready to thank for it, whatever the explanation.

Orphen stood restlessly, a spike of pain reverberating through his skull at the movement. He walked toward the piano and those silver frames sparking bright in the sunlight.

Just to occupy his brain away from everything… just for a moment.

The frames' contents were about what he'd expected. Family portraits and photographs. A man and a little girl smiling in the sunlight. A smiling, elderly couple in expensive clothing. The Everlasting family unit seated together for a photographer, several years ago obviously as, in the photo, Cleo's mother was flanked by her late husband, Margrave. He was a tall, blond man with bright, sharp eyes, his mouth set in a proud smile and his hand on the shoulder of his oldest daughter, Mariabella, as blonde and bright as her sister. In the photo, a young Cleo sat smiling beside her mother, radiant in some kind of ivory dress with pearls in her hair. One look at that and Orphen quickly went on to the next frame, mentally retreating from that image. He went down the line of photographs. Mariabella in a pale green dancing dress, a demure smile on her face. A photo of a young redheaded debutante version of Tistiny in some sort of feathery ballgown. A portrait of some other Everlastings; all bright and smiling and as perfect as Cleo had been afraid she could never be. A photograph of a familiar smirking blonde in a form-fitting fencing suit, standing proud with an epee held prominently in her hands, blade pointed towards the dark floor.

Best not to think too much about that one.

He withdrew back to the first photo, the man and the little girl, smiling happily in the sunlight. The man was Margrave. The girl was small and blonde; perhaps six or seven years old, wearing a flowered red and white sundress with bare feet, hugging her father tight around his neck. Long golden hair was hanging past her waist, the shorter hair around her face forming a loose curl at each temple. Pretty obvious which of the lovely blonde daughters it was. As he studied the photo with its faded green summerlike background, all the skin lit bright in the direct light, vaguely pastel with the sense of a time long past, a sudden knot was cinching tight inside his throat.

He tried to swallow past it, but it became more insistent, and he was just turning away when the parlor door clicked open and Tistiny Everlasting bustled in, decked out in her usual full regalia of voluminous skirts and sleeves, coppery hair drawn back in a bun, her face a lot less placid than the last he'd seen it.

"Imagine my surprise," she began without any formalities or greeting, "when I heard you had come unexpectedly calling, Mr. Finrandi, and that my daughter was not in your company. Was I mistaken to assume her most recent departure was not to accompany _you_, as usual?"

Oh, this was going to go really well, he could already tell, what with the _Mr. Finrandi_ and everything. Damn Cleo for passing on that information. He took a slow breath, his eyes involuntarily dropping closed as he did so. "No, you weren't mistaken."

"I see." She said, folding her hands together in front of her. "I also see that you are injured. Seeing this and my daughter's absence from your side does not put me at ease."

"Nor should it…" He admitted, tugging his neckline higher in an attempt to cover the exposed edges of his bandages. "Mrs. Everlasting…yesterday morning in Alenhaten, an armed brigade from the Kimurak Church appeared…insistent they take your daughter into their custody…" He tried to keep his voice level. Even sounding irritated would be useful. He _had_ to stop rushing into verbal confrontations without planning out exactly what he was going to say.

_Come on, get angry. Don't sound like a whining, useless jackass that couldn't do a fucking thing to help her…_

"For what purpose?" Her voice was rising, her eyes wide. Hysteria was probably in the near future.

"They refused to elaborate. The only thing they did say was that they were basically taking all youngest daughters of noble houses into the detention of the Church."

"_All_ of them?"

"I don't know; that was the impression I got. I wanted to ask you if they'd come looking for her here before tracking me…but I can tell already they didn't."

"They most certainly did not!"

Orphen held up a hand. "Okay…"

"And so you _allowed_ that crooked Church to take my Cleo with no explanations…" Oh, this was going to get ugly. It was so hard not to snap back at her that she was about as willing to listen as her daughter ever was.

"Oh for…God's sake," _Don't swear, don't swear_. He took a breath and began again. "No…I didn't. I wouldn't have. You noticed yourself that I've been injured. In fact, I was _shot_ trying to fight against them and turn them back. But one man against fifty rifles isn't much of a fight." He was trying so hard to swallow the expletives that wanted to flood out of his mouth at her for really assuming he just hadn't bothered to stop them.

Tistiny was silent a long moment, a stoic, piercing glare on her round, soft featured face that he found grew more unsettling the longer she regarded him. Finally, she spoke. "I would like to speak with you in private, Mr. Finrandi."

"Ah…" his eyes swung over to Hartia and Majic where they stood, side by side with their hands folded, looking anxious and sympathetic and utterly unwilling to save him. They gave no sign of contesting her request.

She didn't wait for a reply in any case, she'd already turned and began to move out the French doors and down the corridor behind them. "Come with me, please."

Firing a glare over his shoulder back into the parlor, he did as he was asked. Reluctantly. The pain pulsing in his skull. The hammer tapping the nail deeper into his brain. His head pressurized like something inflatable filling with too much air, except it wasn't air, it was blood.

She led him to a chamber and motioned to a seat. "Close the door, if you would."

He closed the door. He sat in the seat. He kept his mouth shut.

By the rigid, straight line of her posture and the way her face was turned away, it was clear she was livid. In fact, he recognized that body language. He'd seen it only days ago, her daughter sitting up in bed angrily and looking back at him…

Ugh. Best not to think of that. That knot in his throat hadn't gone away yet as it was.

"What sort of relationship do you have with my daughter?"

Orphen blinked. A few seconds passed as he tried to process just what that unexpected question meant and the best, most evasive way to answer it. He thought it best to keep his initial, kneejerk response to himself.

Just for the record, there were any amount of answers to that question, in varying degrees of honesty:

A working relationship.

A tense, semi-functional working relationship.

A tense, semi-functional, recently turned intimate, very _complicated_ working relationship.

An incendiary, semi-functional, mindfuckingly confusing, intensely complicated pseudo working relationship that had never really had anything to do with work at all that had recently turned about as intimate as it could get, thus making him even less sure than ever of exactly what it _did_ have to do with.

But by now, he'd already taken too long to answer. "I don't know what you're asking."

Oh, lame. He already felt like an idiot, and by now he was sure she must have answered the question for herself, on a general enough scale.

"I'm asking you exactly what sort of relationship you share with my daughter to have gotten yourself shot in an attempt to prevent her abduction."

"I didn't _intend_ to get shot." He corrected tensely. "Are you asking me if I feel responsible for this? Because I do and I _will_ bring her back to you, I swear it…"

Tistiny suddenly laughed, a somewhat grating, bitter sounding chuckle that didn't fit her. "I see you're already on the hunt, which unfortunately does little to quell my worries about her safety in the hands of that vicious cult the call a Church. Though, indeed, I have faith at least in your ability to rescue. You've proven that to me before, as I recall. But what good would it do? You bring her back here and she'll just follow _you_ again when you turn to leave."

"What the hell?" He spat, standing up. "Why is this about _me_? _I_ didn't have come here, you know, Mrs. Everlasting, and this has absolutely nothing to do with the sit—"

"It has everything to do with the situation. The last I saw my daughter, she was charging out of this house in an unreasonable rage because I forbade her to leave again with you and your apprentice. I demanded, Mr. Finrandi, that she cease this ridiculous adventuring to finally make her debut into society to look for a _husband_ as she should have over a year ago."

Nothing he didn't already know, though somehow hearing Cleo's mother say it in that throaty, matronly voice of hers made it a little more tangible, and an odd spasm of resentment flashed through him at…that word. But he kept his mouth shut.

"Cleo, of course, wants nothing to do with any of it. She's always been extremely resistant to these things, but I had hoped she would grow more understanding with time. Instead of _less_, as has been the case." Tistiny Everlasting had turned to look out the window, instead of at him; her arms gingerly crossed across her stomach, the afternoon sunlight lighting her round face and narrow eyes. "No. She wants none of it. And furthermore doesn't want to look for a husband at all. Because Cleo has already given her heart away, it seems."

Oh. Fuck. Orphen wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole because he already knew where this was headed. And suddenly a lot of things made sense. But he couldn't stop her from saying the rest, no matter how much he didn't want to hear her say it.

"Because thinks she's in love with you, and she wants to throw away everything I've been building for her since she was just a girl to follow you around like a dog…and I won't allow it any further!" Her voice had escalated to the closest thing to a shout she was probably capable of, which would have been surprising if he hadn't already been completely shocked.

"Which is why I am asking you just what sort of relationship you have with my daughter. For her to continually deny her mother's wishes. For her to have gone off with you and be taken like this…you must be giving her some sort of reason to follow you the way she does, and I need to decide just how much of a threat you really are to her future. Do you love her?" She said this with the most superior look of disdain she could dredge up on her face without outright sneering, even though there were tears gleaming in her eyes.

And there it was, in that contemptuous glare: the naked truth all laid out in front of him. The answer to the question that Cleo had avoided like the plague when he'd asked her what she'd said to raise the ire of her Mother that night, and the words that she wouldn't come right out and say. Was Cleo disgusted at herself for feeling that way? He felt so suddenly sick in that moment with his stomach writhing and his head pounding he just stared numbly at the woman with no response to give.

How would one go about responding to such a thing?

_Well, stupid? Say no. It's what she wants to hear anyway. So tell her. Tell her what she wants to hear. Tell her the truth! You don't love her. You can't. You don't even know how. Don't just stand there like a fucking moron. Fuck, say it!_

His mouth wouldn't seem to work, as though he'd forgotten every word of spoken language he'd ever learned. His whole body felt carved from ice, that nail tap-tapping deeper into his brain, a curious panic creeping up in him as though he'd been caught committing a crime. He brought a hand to his head, almost as though he needed to hold it on or it would just drop right off from spinning the way it felt like it was.

"Listen…" he said in a low voice, his other hand clenched in such a tight fist that even through gloves, his nails bit painfully into his palm. "You clearly are more interested in securing her status than the actual _danger_ she could be in. I don't know what kind of Mother that makes you, but I'm not going to stay around and play this asinine game—"

Before the woman could respond, though the furious, saucer-eyed expression she was aiming at him as she began to said more than enough, the chamber door creaked open timidly, and through the opening slipped half of Mariabella Everlasting: shapely, blonde and, in his very silent opinion, not quite as attractive as her sister.

They looked alike, that was true, though their build and features were different. Though he wouldn't have noticed before, now standing in the room with the both of them, one would have to say Mariabella resembled her mother quite a bit more than her younger sibling, with shorter, curlier hair; plainer, more subdued features and a delicateness about her that was definitely not a shared trait. Not that Cleo was a bull exactly, but she was obstinate as all hell and had an impressive capacity for survival while Mariabella was distinctly more dainty, and Orphen felt sure one solid "goddamn" would make her keel over.

Regardless, she looked just enough like her sister that somehow, it sort of hurt to look at her.

"Mother, I'm sorry to intrude…" she began, her eyes coming to rest on the sorcerer with an air of surprise. "Oh! I…I'm sorry, I didn't know…" The young woman immediately began to back up until Tistiny spoke up to stop her.

"Come in, darling. We were just discussing your sister."

And Mariabella took that dangling carrot like the bait it was. "Cleo?" she breathed, turning her gaze back to Orphen, wide eyed with innocent trepidation. "Has something happened?"

Woo, he didn't like where this was going. To have both of them jumping down his throat; asking him questions to which he didn't know the answer was not a particularly appealing prospect. Backed up into a corner like a cat as he was already; he was bound to lash out and either say something terrible or, worse, _do_ something terrible. He immediately interjected before the woman could spill the whole tale and the argument could start afresh with a new participant. "Actually, I believe we have just run out of things to discuss."

"Is that so?" Tistiny said, her voice gaining a recognizable tone of defiant supremacy. "I was awaiting an answer from you, I believe."

"And my answer is that it's beside the goddamn _point_." He said, his voice raising a little louder than he'd really intended, and his head throbbed in response. "It was a mistake to come here. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking."

With that, he turned and strode from the room, sweeping past Mariabella without a word and through the open door, only vaguely satisfied with the scandalized look on her face in reaction to his use of language.

Boiling with fury, he returned to the parlor on quick legs, glad to hear neither of the Everlasting women were following him back out. Majic and Hartia both stood, apprehension clear on their faces, turning toward him as he stalked in.

"We're going," he barked, barely slowing for them to catch up to him on his way through the parlor entrance and into the grand entrance hall.

His brain was going to liquefy and run out of his head, he was sure of it. With every percussive, irate step across the stone floor; the hard click of his heel rocketed up through his nerves; feeding the misery and stoking the fire of his fury.

What kind of mother would be more concerned with grilling him about his relationship with her daughter instead of demanding just what the fuck he was going to do to save her? What kind of woman would just straight out ask something like _that_, as though it was so easy? Clearly love wasn't anything complicated to people like her; to whom marriage and relationships were just means to the end of securing wealth and status; just a lot of feathers in a fucking hat. There were no conflicts there. Someone like that who had everything; who'd likely been given a charmed life of luxury and status from the day of her birth, who'd barely suffered a day in her life, how could she know how much it hurt to want, to need someone's love and _never get it_? How could she begin to know how sacred of a concept that might be to someone? How once it was earned it was owed forever? It wasn't a fucking trophy to pass around. To throw that word around, throw it in his _face_ like some kind of challenge; the woman had no idea what she was asking him. No idea at all. The bitch.

_Do you love her?_

Fuck.

As he was coming down the stone stairs outside, practically running down them, he almost laughed. Some powerfully contrary part of him wondered what horrible thing she would have said if he'd told her he did. If he said, yes, he loved her. If he'd said it just to spite her, even if it wasn't true. He could only imagine the grand scale of threats she would have made while rabid with the fear a loser piece of shit like him would run off with her precious daughter and make an utter failure and a fool of her for the whole world of aristocratic society to scoff at.

He had half a mind to turn around, stomp back into that room, point in her haughty goddamn face and tell her, you know what, yeah. I love her. Since you asked, yeah. I do. You have a fucking problem with that?

Even if it wasn't true.

He wouldn't do it, probably couldn't even get the sentence out of his mouth if he tried, but he'd get a sick satisfaction out of it if he could. How dare she barely care what had happened to Cleo? How dare she point that look at him, as though if he loved her back, it would be a worse fate for her than if the Church killed her; burned her on a stake in Kimurak Square. She'd rather her daughter be dead than shame her family name like that.

Well. He'd be damned if he'd let that woman have her way. She had shown him just exactly why Cleo did the things she did and said the things she said; and though he'd never thought it possible, as he heard Majic and Hartia clopping down the stairs after him, he felt intensely sorry for the girl. And the more he thought about that, the more he wanted to tell her that. He wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault. He wanted to tell her that even if her mother didn't care, he did. That he was coming for her. To not worry. To not cry.

That he was sorry. For a lot of things. God, was he _sorry_…


	12. The High Priestess

**Chapter Twelve: The High Priestess**

Somewhere behind the darkness of Cleo's eyelids, someone was crying. It wasn't until her thoughts began to focus once more that she realized it was _her_.

She wasn't sure if she'd ever been completely asleep. Actually, she wasn't sure of much at all. It would have been difficult to discern in that frigid dark if she was even alive if her body wasn't telling her so. All she could be certain of were primal sensations: fear, hunger, pain, grief.

Whether it had been hours or days since her last recollection, there was no real way of knowing. For all she knew, it could have been a century. She'd slipped into a void in those moments following the second teleport with Leticia, dark and silent and complete, but that oblivion was cruel: it did not last.

She was starving, her stomach burning inside her with that message. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest when she moved, bringing herself up from the cold stone floor on her trembling arms, breath huffing out of her body in dry, shaking, gossamer clouds she could only barely recognize in the timeless twilight of the room. Her hair strung stiffly across her face where it had dried, sticky and damp with tears and half-dry rain and she swiped at it as she rose up on her knees and onto shaking legs.

With the way she felt, she might have suspected she'd fallen off a cliff if she hadn't known better. But as sore as she was, nothing seemed broken. Nothing physical, anyway.

Had she dreamed? She couldn't remember. Her senses were still foggy, like looking up at the sky from deep underwater. She stumbled on stiff legs towards the dark outline of a wooden door and shook the knob, only half coherent. It was like a rudimentary reflex; just in case somehow she wasn't locked in after all.

But no. She was. It was firmly bolted, the handle barely giving at all. Still holding the doorknob, she leaned her forehead against the rough wood, eyes closed, and felt a sob swelling in her chest. She wanted to call out through the door, but didn't even know what to say. Who to call for. The only person she could think of calling for in a time like this, the only person she wanted to see…she'd just watched him drop lifelessly to the ground in a spray of bullets and blood.

Cleo buried her face in the crook of her arm against the door, inhaled shakily, and seethed into the damp fabric of her sleeve. Her knees shook under her, protesting the burden of her weight. Once she had naively thought there could be nothing that could make her hate the Kimurak Church more than she already did. One might think they had something personal against her, with their penchant for murdering those she loved most. For making her life hell.

The worst part was there was no way of knowing if he was even alive. He could take a lot of punishment, she knew that. But as much as sometimes it didn't seem like it, he was human…and there were limits to what he could endure. Sorcerers were just as capable of dying as anyone else. It was just that if it wasn't him, if it were _anyone else_, she wouldn't have to wonder. If it was anyone else, she'd already know they were dead.

A vague tremble of inspiration bubbled up inside her. "Hello?" she called, her voice abraded and raw, coming out shrill and wavering. "Hello?!"

She hit the door, her fist balled up as tight as she could muster in her frozen, half-awake attempt. "_**Hello**_?!" She banged again, hitting with the fleshy heel of her hand until the door shuddered on its hinges.

But her heart just wasn't in it. If she'd been herself, she'd be making threats by now. Kicking the door. Screaming at the top of her lungs just to get someone to come and tell her to shut up. But she was so cold, and the only thing her body really wanted was to curl in on itself and weep.

She slid down, sitting against the door, wrapping her arms around her legs, forehead on her knees, tears dripping from the soft point of her chin to spot her jeans.

If she'd been herself, she'd be screaming that if she froze to death in here, the Everlastings would make them sorry they ever heard that name. Even if by all counts, the Everlastings would probably tell her it served her right; and the Church would laugh and tell her they'd long since been sorry they had. According to her mother, with her gallivanting across the countryside with a band of suspicious characters, she was bound to end up in a situation just like this eventually. Her mother would have no qualms about telling her she was just lucky at this point she'd woken up with her pants still on.

It was that sick line of reasoning that had made her mother insist she receive those shots, after all. Tistiny had summoned the doctor during her first return to Totokanta with the intention of leaving again, and had demanded each time since she be inoculated against bearing children—after all, a bastard child conceived by some depraved rape would not only irrevocably besmirch the Everlasting name; but would also be societal suicide. No gentleman would even consider marrying so damaged a woman.

She'd never said anything about preventing the actual rape itself. But then, she was used to that sort of thing from her mother: she was absolutely more concerned about the evidence that would give the secret away, rather than the secret itself. If it could be hidden, it wasn't as nearly as horrid as if it could be discovered and proven.

To say nothing of the trauma and pain it would cause her, should something like that happen. Perhaps she thought that if it happened, her disobedient daughter deserved that part. She'd personally never worried about it. She knew Orphen would never allow…

Cleo pressed her palms to her wet eyes, willing the tears to stop, cursing each weak, hiccupping breath she sucked in. She would accomplish nothing sitting in the dark, succumbing to her self-pity and misery when she should be pounding on the door, screaming for an explanation. Insisting to speak with whoever insisted she be brought here. Demanding they tell her why it was so important she be imprisoned here that they found need to shoot a man presumably dead to accomplish that end.

Her thoughts jumbled up again, seizing up around that one idea, and new tears burned in her sinuses.

"_Who cares what I said? You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me."_

Oh god, she hadn't meant that. Sometimes the most awful things came out of her mouth. She hadn't thought about it, she'd just wanted to say something that might hurt him, even a little. Looking back, she wasn't sure why she'd thought he would care if he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her any more than he would care if she'd said he was the best. But he had looked angry, stung even, just for that moment before he was distracted away from their argument.

Once she'd wanted desperately to confess that she loved him. That she wanted to belong to him. That she would follow him wherever he went and through whatever he did if he'd allow it. And now that she had told him, albeit not quite in the way she'd imagined, she'd also viciously repealed that proclamation only to have it be the last thing she'd said…the last thing she might ever have a chance to say to him. She didn't want to think how it hadn't been very long since she'd been tangled with him in the dark, all entwined limbs and twisted, sweat-damp sheets; her face burrowed against his neck, feeling his heartbeat more than listening to it, the faint cinnamon scent of his skin flooding her senses.

Oh _God_. He couldn't be dead. She wouldn't let him be dead!

She might have let out a soul-splitting sob, if she hadn't heard a voice on the other side of the door.

Just barely, but she'd heard it, even over the sound of her own weeping; a distinct harmonic from beyond the locked door, but whether this was something to feel positive about or not remained to be seen. She held in her emotion with her breath, momentarily distracted away from the misery that was flooding her, and waited.

Several long seconds passed. Cleo slowly exhaled.

Then. "Can you hear me?"

Stupidly, struck dumb as she was, she almost nodded before realizing it would do no good.

She whispered back. "Hello?"

"Cleo Everlasting?"

Her heart thumped harder. "Y-Yes…"

"Thank god. I've tried six other doors…" The lock suddenly clicked over her head, and she bolted backward from the door on her hands and feet like a fearful crab, instinctually wary. The knob turned silently, the door opening just enough for a tall, thin figure in robes to squeeze in and shut it quietly behind.

"Isn't there a _lamp_?" Only then did she recognize that voice.

"…_Azalea_?"

The figure was feeling around on a little table in the corner, the silence split by the hissing burst of a match springing to life, which she touched to the wick of an oil lamp Cleo hadn't even bothered to know was there at all.

She turned toward her, incontestably gorgeous, her hair so deep black it almost reflected violet, even in the amber lamplight. It was hard not to feel like a complete troll standing in the same room with her, especially now. Cleo blinked her swollen eyes up at her just for that moment before climbing to her feet and righting her sweater self-consciously, sweeping her hair out of her tear-wet face.

"You're a mess," the woman near-whispered, reaching into her robe and withdrawing a handkerchief, extending it to her.

She took it with a shaky hand. "Thank you…"

"What happened?" she asked succinctly, gathering her robes and sitting on the end of a narrow cot that Cleo likewise had not noticed. Not that she'd really had much of a chance.

She sniffed, attempting a calm voice and failing. "I…I don't know…I don't know what's going on. There were soldiers…"

"Yes, yes I know that part, honey. I heard they've killed Krylancelo," she said gravely. "Is that what happened?"

For just a moment, Cleo went numb. The tears she'd just dried spilled down her face once more, her hands wringing the handkerchief in a hard twist, her voice a shrill whisper when she finally managed to speak. "Is…is he _dead_?"

"Well, that's what I'm asking you. What happened to him?" How could she sound so _calm_?

"They shot him," she breathed tremulously. "He fell…buh…but that's all I saw…"

Azalea's face twisted in anger while Cleo buried her face in her shaking hands. "This is all her fault, I knew this insane scheme would only make things worse," she hissed. "I can't believe it…he's been through worse than that. I don't buy it. _Stop_ crying!"

Seething into her palms, dropping back to the stone floor, Cleo shook her head. "Oh my God…"

"Cut it out!" She snapped, standing. "If you make that much noise they're going to find me in here before I've even found out anything…

"I don't know anything! I don't even know why I'm here!"

"You're _here_ because Leticia Macredy pointed out to the Kimurak Conclave that they'd overlooked _you _when they were compiling their collection of…detainees, shall we say. She did it to gain their favor, supposedly, and even volunteered to lead them to where you would be so they'd let her out of the barrier they've built around the Tower and the surrounding city."

"Muh-me specifically?" She was already shaking. Her face was turning white.

"It doesn't really have anything to do with you, sweetheart. Your being involved is really just happenstance. The bishop was immediately interested because of your surname. But Leticia did it to find a way out of the barrier and rile up our little brother. She couldn't very well ask him for help with all the monks they sent with her, monitoring her every move…so, instead she threatened him by telling him not to dare set foot near the Tower and to keep the hell out of it," Azalea hissed, dropping into a kneel beside her to drop her voice, "she would thus ensure that Krylancelo, the only sorcerer on the outside of the Tower both powerful and reckless enough to involve himself…and who _never_ does what he is asked, warned _or_ told, would come straight here."

"She baited him? It's… all a trick? But why isn't anybody _here_ doi—"

"Doing anything? What, you think I go around using keys and matches for my health?" she shook the key ring she'd used on the door at her a bit for emphasis. "Everyone in the Tower is silenced. We're no threat to them whatsoever. Every magician in this school, from the elders to the children, completely unable to cast a single spell…even in the city. With the exception of Leticia, that is. Between that and their weapons, no one can stop them from doing exactly as they please. Point a gun in the face of a silenced sorcerer and you'll see nothing but co-operation."

Cleo coughed a little, hugging her arms tight around herself. "I still don't understand why they'd even be interested...why they'd go to all that trouble to go back and take me." That was a lie. She didn't know why she said it. "Why are they taking all the daughters of noble families? Leticia didn't say a thing about why…"

In the flickering light, Azalea frowned. "I don't know. I heard it was for your own safety…but I haven't heard any more about the reasoning behind that than you have, apparently. But then they aren't exactly briefing us on their plans. We're _prisoners_—"

"…And in her ploy to deceive Orphen into coming here to help all of you…Leticia's succeeded in having him killed instead…" She may have sounded a little frenzied, but indeed that was it in a nutshell. It was all an accident. And it was all because of her, one way or another.

"Don't believe it. Krylancelo…even as a child, getting wounded isn't enough to put him down for long."

"They shot him with rifles! I saw the blood!" Hysteria was closing in. Denial wasn't far behind.

"…he's lived through worse than that, believe me. I don't trust anything these people say. I don't see how they could know. It's possible he's perfectly fine."

Despite the lucid composure that came along with anger, a few tears still slipped down her cheeks and she wiped at them fiercely with the twisted up handkerchief. "…if he's dead, I'm to blame."

"Now you're sounding like him."

"Well, how in the hell do you want me to sound?!" Arguing was making her feel a little more like herself.

"That's more like it. We don't have time for you to wallow around in blame and self pity. How did someone like _you_ end up apprenticed to my brother, anyway? Don't aristocrats usually study in Meverlenst?"

Just for the record, it was sort of weird how Azalea referred to Orphen as her brother when Cleo had once been so convinced that he was in love with her. But, she supposed, it had been before she'd really understood what had happened to them and the nature of their bond. Obviously, he did love her; inasmuch as Orphen could probably love anybody. Just not quite in the way she'd originally thought.

Which was still more than she could say for whatever was between them. Though even after what she'd said to him…he'd still tried to save her…

"Wuh…well, it's a long story." Cleo interrupted her own thoughts before they inevitably led her back to tears, she didn't bother with being offended with whatever that comment had meant. "The main thing is that the Baltander's sword belongs to my family…"

Azalea perked at that, her eyes suspicious. "Is that true? I hadn't heard that…strange a family like yours owning such a sword."

"Oh…I…I don't think my father knew just what sort of sword it was when he…acquired it. And…and I did go to Academy in Meverlenst…" Suddenly she realized what Azalea had suggested. "And I'm _not_ apprenticed to Orphen, thank you. _Majic_ is his apprentice."

"Oh?" Azalea's eyebrows drew low, suspicious. "And just what are you to him, then?"

"…his partner." What she'd really wanted to tell her was that she was his lover. Perhaps that old jealousy of Azalea hadn't quite died off after all. The truth was she didn't really know what she was to Orphen anymore. Maybe she never really had.

"He requires a partner?"

"Certainly," she huffed, her voice thick in her throat. "He is the most unorganized slob I've ever met. You should've seen the state of his books when I met him." It's not that any of it wasn't true.

"You studied at the court in Meverlenst to become the bookkeeper for a…"

She huffed again. "I didn't study at the _court_!" Cleo squinted at her. "What…do you think I know sorcery?"

Now Azalea looked perplexed for a long moment, her brow furrowing, her lips pressing together into a line as though she'd been asked a trick question. "…Don't you?"

"No!"

"Why…not?"

"What the hell do you mean _why not_?" she hissed angrily.

"Aren't you Margrave Everlasting's daughter?"

Cleo blinked. "…yes…"

"Well, aren't the Everlastings a bloodline descended from the Nornir?"

"Wha-no! I…_of course not_." She didn't know why she was so flustered, really, but her voice had become a little shrill. Maybe it was just years of her mother's influence coming through. Her mother had more disdain for those of sorcerous ancestry than was really merited in a noble woman who had not raised her children in the Kimurak Faith. Theirs had to be one of the only families of the Kiesalhiman aristocracy that did not subscribe to those doctrines, which were almost inherently accepted in the high born. It was well known that the Lords had been less than pleased about his appointment to Parliament due to their religious differences and had contested him at every turn; a fact that more than explained his sudden sickness and death only a couple of years later. All she really knew of it was that her mother suspected the Church's influence had permeated the court and parliament so deeply that it likewise had orchestrated and assisted in the disposing of Margrave Everlasting from his hard-won seat in the House of Lords. The Church could not allow other faiths to worm in; could not allow their stranglehold of the system to slip. Margrave Everlasting had been a sacrifice to that end, and for whatever reason the Everlasting family were not Kimurakists, this was not discussed and never had been. Since her father's untimely death when she was still only 15, her Mother had become ever more profoundly focused on ensuring her daughters' social standings than she had ever been. Cleo had never asked why, merely assumed it was her method of accepting what had happened. Her only means on controlling her daughters', and therefore her own, fate. The only control she had left.

Which only made Cleo more disgusted and livid. Her father's life had been sacrificed to the system, and therefore her own must also be thrown away; to preserve the dignity and future of the Everlasting name. She'd fought her every step of the way, kicking and screaming. And the night she blurted out that she was in love with a wandering sorcerer was the night her Mother had given her a look of horror, called her ungrateful and idiotic; screamed at her that she didn't understand anything, and that she was forbidden to leave with that young man ever again. She wouldn't let some vagrant sorcerer destroy everything she'd worked to ensure.

Well. Maybe it was just a daughter's job to piss off her mother. Here she was now. If she hadn't left, the Church may never have taken her. _Of course_ they'd been interested when someone dangled the name Everlasting under their nose.

But what none of this explained was Azalea's misconception that her father should be associated with sorcerous ancestry. "I would _know_, wouldn't I?"

Azalea scowled. "Keep your voice down. Lord. I suppose so…it's just that's not what I've heard, is all. Your father's assassination and everything; and the fact you were schlepping around with Krylancelo made me think it was true. If you're not a sorceress, I've come here for no reason."

Cleo folded her arms tight across her chest. "My father's death can be blamed entirely on the Kimurak Church having its dirty fingers sunk deep in what we mistakenly call our government."

"Quite a claim for such a young girl. Aren't you getting a little big for your britches with that one?"

"What would you know about it?" she growled. "They got rid of my father to show that the Church's authority and influence is absolute. They'd do anything to take down my entire family if they could; that's what my mother's always said. But our not being Kimurakists doesn't automatically mean—"

"I guess you've never heard the rumor mill surrounding that. You might have been too young to hear anything but your mother's version of it all, what are you—seventeen, eighteen? Everyone assumed they had him killed because not only was he not a Kimurakist; but that he wasn't a Kimurakist because far back in his line there were sorcerers. Who ever heard of a Kimurakist sorcerer? It's oxymoron. Besides, it's not something an aristocrat would usually want to make public knowledge, that kind of heritage, especially one with political aspirations. That's the common belief."

Cleo glared daggers at her. "Believe me, my father was not a sorcerer. If that was the case, why would they have sent me to study sorcery if they were covering it all up?"

"I figured that's why you were glued to Krylancelo! All under the radar, like. It only makes sense!"

"Dammit, then why did you ask? You really only came thinking I knew magic and could help you out?"

"I _came_ wanting to know if they'd silenced you too when they brought you here!"

"_Now_ who needs to keep their voice down?" she snapped.

"Then what in the world are you tagging along with Krylancelo for if you're not a sorceress?" Azalea spat back, clearly frustrated. "He must need to protect you at every turn, good lord. No wonder he got himself shot!"

Ouch. Cleo felt that comment like an ax to the chest. New tears burned in her vision but she tilted her head defiantly back, blindly refusing to let them spill again in front of her.

Azalea stood suddenly, her hands coming up to clasp themselves at her waist. She took a breath and held it a moment before slowly exhaling. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry…just…I don't know what to do. It's not just for me. I thought maybe…" She sat back down on the floor again, circling her arms around her knees with a dismal droop to her beautiful features.

A long silence passed between them, Azalea watching the girl thoughtfully as she fought new tears and pulled at the sleeves of her sweater, their shivering breath fogging out in frail clouds around them.

"You love him. Don't you." It sounded less like a question than it did like a fact.

Cleo's head jerked up at that, even though there was no reason to act surprised. Almost on reflex, she averted her face, but she didn't bother denying it. After a strained silence that felt like it lasted a year, she nodded miserably, her eyes downcast and avoidant.

"And does he love you?"

Hearing the predictable second part of that question, under the circumstances, proved a little too much. Those denied tears finally trickled down her face, a cold clutch of grief winding around her heart, choking the pride from her. All this talking about her father, and now this. She shook her head slowly, attempting to sniff quietly enough to spare herself even a little dignity and could only react with surprise when Azalea reached out for her hands, her face suddenly sympathetic.

"I'm sorry I asked…I…know exactly how that feels..."

She bristled in response and would have ripped her hands away indignantly; if it hadn't occurred to her that actually, she did. If anyone knew what it felt like, it was Azalea. She'd heard the truth about her relationship with Childman, after all, though she'd never heard much in detail on the subject and where Azalea didn't seem as though she intended to do more than allude to it, neither did Cleo feel inclined to ask.

Still, she held onto her hands, looking at them, running the pad of a thumb over her knuckles for a compassionate second before her grip tightened a little, the sad expression vanishing from her face in a snap, like blowing out a candle. She looked up at her. "You're sure your family doesn't have the genes?"

She almost started from that abrupt change. "Of course I am. How could I _not know_ something like that?"

"But he's touched you, hasn't he? My brother?"

The rapid coloring of her face said it all, even in the lamplight. "Wuh-what do you mean?"

Azalea gave a coy smile. "Oh my, I didn't mean that. I meant touch you. Literally. Skin to skin, like I have your hands right now."

"O-Of course he has." Oh, he'd certainly done more than that, if she hadn't already given that little secret away. "After all, like you said, he has to save me from disaster every three seconds," she added crossly. "What for?"

"Because," Azalea said. "If he's ever touched you for any length of time and not felt that you have some sorcerous energy in you, either he's completely insensitive or I'm insane."

Cleo felt both choices were fairly accurate. Stranger conclusions had been drawn. "I don't understand."

"I _feel_ it. I'm telling you. I mean, it's faint. Really small. Barely anything at all, but I've always been good at sensing energy. That's how I was able to find the Ruins at Baltander's Isle; the energy it emitted, even through the fog and dark. This is the same thing. I thought for a second…maybe I just was assuming things. Or I just _wanted_ to feel it. But no…" she squeezed her hands, her eyes a little vacant. Cleo remembered distinctly a conversation she'd had with Orphen about Azalea, how she could become swept away in any discovery; become obsessive to the point of being almost frightening.

"Azalea…" she tugged her hands away with a jerk. "Stop it."

"No really, listen to me. He's really never said anything?"

She scowled, becoming irritated once more. "Really. Never. I think you're imagining things."

"You're sure he's had the opportunity?"

"Oh, he's had plenty." She immediately wished she hadn't said it quite that way, as Azalea gave her another one of those knowing smiles that somehow felt worse than a nightmare of being naked at school. Like she was seeing right down to her soul, and mocking the trite little heart that lay underneath it all. An idealistic, little girl's heart full of silly crap. A naïve little whore who'd spread her legs in her own desperate attempt to be close to a man she knew didn't love her. That smile made her feel like a dirty, immoral fool.

"I see. Well, all the more reason why there's no way he _doesn't_ know about it."

The lamplight flickered considerably, as though someone was blowing on the flame, and Cleo shuddered in the cold, her cheeks stiff with dried tears, completely unable to absorb this information. All of this together was just emotional overload. She was mistaken. She just didn't want to be wrong. "Why are you telling me this _now_?"

"I came here under the impression you were what I thought you were. Turns out that maybe I knew better than you did. But if you didn't know…then no one else probably does either. Which means they _wouldn't_ have silenced you."

"What good does that do? Even _if_ I have what you say I have! I don't know how to _do_ anything!"

"It doesn't matter. What little magic you have is still more than anyone else in this entire city right now…" Azalea gave her a smile that almost seemed seductive, but her eyes turned toward the hollow sound of a slamming door in the corridor beyond. "Damn."

"And what would you have me do?"

"I'm going to have to come back. Eris couldn't buy much time after all. She's signaling me."

"Wait—! I! I don't know!" Flustered with the idea of being left by herself again, Cleo knotted her hands together. "You really don't know _why_ I'm here?"

"Other than what I said? No…" She was already standing and heading for the door.

"Do you know what…what do they want with the Tower? Why are they doing this? The Church, I mean." The thirty-second third degree. She should have asked all of this earlier.

"Something called the Arcana. I don't really know exactly. I haven't read the Kimurak Scripture, but supposedly there is some kind of prophecy they believe is coming to pass. They think the people at the Tower would try to stand in the way of their fulfilling it." The door slammed again, out in the hallway. Signalling. "I _have_ to go."

Cleo's hands closed into fists. "What would they do if they found you in here?"

"I don't know…but I don't want to jeopardize anything before I can do it. They have this leader, I know him from somewhere, but he's a sorcerer." Suddenly she stepped forward, all at once intensely serious. "Cleo. Listen to me. Their leader, I don't think he's part of the Church, but he works under the Bishop. They call him the Hand of Kimurak, and he's the guy giving orders to Leticia. You'll know him when you see him. He's tall, _big_, darkish skin. He's got a long braid."

She leaned down, dropping her voice even further. "If he comes in here, _don't let him touch you_. If they find out before we can figure something out, we're all screwed. I have to get back, the baby…"

"Azalea…"

She stopped once more in the doorway, looking back with an annoyed expression.

"You really think he's alright?"

Her face softened. A little. "Well, I won't guarantee you anything. But he's stubborn, that one. When he was undergoing the trails, he nearly killed himself in the process. Even I was afraid he wouldn't make it." She gave a small nod. "I'll see you again."

And with a click of door and the follow turning of the lock tumbler, she was alone again, her mind buzzing more than it had been before. A salvo of thoughts were appearing in her head, the way bubbles materialize in boiling water, rattling and chaotic, too many to process. Beyond the bubbling anger brought to the surface by discussing her father's death, something she steadfastly refused to talk about most of the time, there was numbing fear. She was as much terrified of the Church as she despised them. The other morning, before she'd fought with Orphen, hearing Hartia explain the Kimurak faith the Majic in that calm, undiscriminating manner—she'd wanted to scream that he was wrong. That they were vultures, they were evil, they were murderers. Instead, she'd opted to leave the room as quickly as possible, her emotions tangled up enough as it was. And Orphen had followed her…and she'd said terrible things.

Cleo was starting to shake again, tears burning in her eyes as she craned her head down against her bent knees, catching sight of the blood soaked and dried into the v-neckline of her sweater. Absently she felt up around the underside of her jaw, where she'd been pierced by Leticia's dagger, trying to recall that conversation.

"_So the first war between the Church and the Tower was a holy war?"_

"_To the Kimurak Church, certainly. It can also be said that the Church is only around today and holds any governmental power because of the vast wealth they control and the religious influence they have upon the high-born. Even their teachings promise salvation to those loyal to the old faith in the Arcana."_

"_The Arcana?" _

"_Indeed, the mysteries of the church. The circumstances in which the Gods will call those faithful to the old ways home to the Giant's Continent. I'm sure you can imagine just what the Tower thinks of that." _

Remembering Hartia's words was difficult as she'd been trying so hard not to listen. But she did remember that. Mostly because Orphen had disgustedly joined in their discussion. If she hadn't been so angry at him, she would have kissed him for saying exactly what she felt about the Church. Just another reason why she couldn't help her feelings…despite how wasted they really were on him.

The Arcana? That's what Azalea had said, as much as it was difficult to believe anything that came out of her mouth, what with the magical energy bullshit she was spouting.

What could they possibly be trying to do? What could their ridiculous scripture have to do with _her_?

What they could have to gain by killing her, she had no idea, but her mother had spent years instilling the fact that the Kimurak Church would see them all hang if they could. They were gathering the daughters of all noble families for their own safety? Well, then, _of course_ they overlooked her.

Of course they did. It was just the fact that they took Leticia's bait and followed her trail of crumbs to the youngest Everlasting girl that was unnerving. What they may want with the noble girls was one thing; what they may want to do with _her_, well. That was another.

She could be sure of that. Something that was enough reason to shoot a man dead. Something that was enough to risk trusting an enemy to lead them to her. Oh _God_.

Cleo buried her face in her hands, her stomach twisting hard inside her, and for the first time in her life, wishing she had listened to her mother.

She curled in on herself and shook like a rabbit.


	13. The Hermit

**Chapter Thirteen: The Hermit**

Just for the record, it had been six days since he'd seen her.

Not that he was keeping track or anything. He just happened to know. He just happened to know it had been about a week. That it had been six days since they'd had that vicious, low-voiced argument in the corridor, when she told him she hated him. Six days since he'd been shot nearly to death. Five days since he'd stupidly returned to Totokanta to assure her mother he would retrieve her safely and had instead stirred up a storm of bitter accusations of which he'd wanted absolutely no part. Four days since arriving by teleport on the outskirts of Taflem only to find the city utterly walled off with a tangible barrier made with an extraordinary magic so thick and dense there was no way in or out; whether by translocation or more conventional means.

One had to appreciate the irony. All he wanted for years was to stay out of the Tower of Kiba. Now all he wanted was a way in.

The barrier had been a translucent construct, the way light passed through it was the only thing that made it visible, a wavering shimmer like a heat mirage that skewed the image of the ornate city beyond; a surreal reflection in a carnival mirror. It was not of a structure taught at the Tower, to be sure; though Orphen would have never assumed it to be the work of anyone from inside. Leticia herself had stated it was the Church occupying Taflem and the Tower of Kiba at the center of the metropolis. If sorcery was involved in the imprisonment of the city, it surely wouldn't of a nature that was easily overcome by the inhabitants, and the foreign nature of the shield itself was enough to prove that. It just wouldn't make sense any other way. Whoever was assisting the Church in their thus far baffling agenda with the use of magic; it had someone who had undergone studies elsewhere. At the court in Meverlenst, no doubt. Members of the Order of the Thirteen Angels, reportedly made extinct by the conflagration of the capital. Standing, staring up at that peculiar barricade, Orphen was absolutely sure of it. There were only so many institutions at which to study sorcery in Kiesalhima, and even fewer places to actually learn any value of technique. There could really be no other explanation. Even a freelance sorcerer's student would learn spells from one book or another, and only men like Rox Rowe had been able to course magic through experimental means to birth new spells and structures out of nothing but research and a natural understanding of the energies involved.

Of course. Now that he thought about it, he'd never really tried. After the trials he'd endured to acquire the set of skills called Razor's Edge, Orphen had lost a lot of interest in learning or trying anything new. He still had some of the scars from those weeks of sheer hell. A few of them would never go away. A particularly nasty one that curved across his side came to mind, one that Cleo had asked about only recently and he had lied about. One he had given to _himself_.

It had been during those trials he'd first become started becoming confused about who he was and what he was doing at any given time. This had only become worse after Azalea's accident. The funeral where they all acted like she really was dead and he was the only one confused, thinking she was alive. Smashing open that empty coffin in the rain. Snapping his pendant off his neck. Even Hartia hadn't been able to look him in the eye and tell him he wasn't insane. Afterwards, who knew what they said. If it was because he'd always been a little off, or if the succession of Razor's Edge was to blame.

He'd only had to see the successful effects of those spells once or twice to swear off using them entirely. Undeniably powerful as they were, useful as they could be, and as much torment as he'd endured to obtain them, using them against another person was just…unthinkable. Despite that he was their only successor and it was his responsibility to pass them on to the right person. But that had been decided when he was still expected to follow a career at the Tower. Likely, this was why the Tower was continually after him to return, despite how he'd forsaken it. He figured it was their fault for choosing someone as successor who wasn't enough of a monster to be able to simply tuck it away in their arsenal of skills and move on.

Yes. He'd decided long ago to take Razor's Edge with him to his grave. If he hadn't already.

But regardless, the barrier at Taflem and Razor's Edge were not one and the same thing. Who knew why he was thinking of it like they were. It did remind him of something, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of what.

It had been three and a half days since they'd found the nearby city of Kimurak practically deserted, an identical barrier erected around the garrison and monastery; a visual oxymoron if there ever was one: a sorcerous construct protecting an institution that reviled sorcery in itself as the ruin of man's higher purposes. It was a sight that decided where they had to go; the only place that seemed they were liable to turn up any information in a country that seemed determined to turn its eyes away from what was happening for as long as possible.

They had to go to Meverlenst. Whatever was left of it, and whoever was left in it; someone had to know something of use. There had to be students who could recognize the type of magic that sealed-in Taflem. There had to be someone who knew how to _break_ it.

It had been three days since he'd won the shouting match with Hartia, who had been insisting he was grievously overexerting himself in his furious search to find someone who could tell him just what the hell was going on, only to practically collapse with exhaustion later in the afternoon. They'd made a camp outside of Kimurak that night, a ridiculous idea in the stinging cold of the North, but necessary all the same. Now that it was early November, the ground was hard and near-frozen, and the next storm that bubbled up over the mountains would bury the region in snow. Despite a roaring fire that they'd kept burning all night, Orphen had lain awake, shivering, mind churning out theories and strategies and questions he couldn't answer, dozing only a little before dawn began to warm the sky and he'd set his sights on Meverlenst, now far to the southeast; too distant to translocate in all one shot.

It had only been two days since he'd developed a wicked cough; the return of humid weather aggravating the still mending injury to his left lung, which made Majic worry and Hartia accuse him of self-torture, inciting another argument in which it was brought up that he hadn't eaten; barely slept and barely spoken to either of them in days; which Orphen insisted was utterly beside the point. Likewise they'd gone days without any progress or answers; teleporting around towns in veritable circles while heading south, searching for news, for information on different constructs of obstruction magic and various methods of release or breach; mostly to no avail. The newspapers everywhere were blazoned with headlines regarding the burning of Meverlenst and the surrounding fringe towns; the emergency transfer of power to Archbishop Brahm, and the occupation of and charges against the Tower of Kiba, suspected of orchestrating the grand scale act of arson as a coup d'état.

It was only yesterday that the newspapers bore more disturbing news: The Emperor was dead. Dead from complications arising from burns and smoke inhalation obtained while the Imperial Palace had burned. To make it worse, the Empress Consort held no right of inheritance in the event of her husband's death, and no heir had been left by His Imperial Majesty. The Imperial Federation's very foundation would be compromised, and despite the Kimurak Church's support and acting on behalf of the Emperor, many Kiesalhimans were concerned they would becoming the solitary ruling body. Oligarchic as the system already was, there had been outcry they were on the cusp of becoming a Polity, a system ruled entirely by a Religious Institution with an unfortunate and decidedly sanguinary image, one whose doctrines did not make up the popular belief throughout the continent.

Hartia had said it himself. The Kimurak Church wasn't exactly admired except in the regions in which it held influence through the high aristocrats raised in the Kimurakian belief system, and even more through its extremely deep pockets. But upon arrival that morning in Meverlenst, it was a virtual graveyard, and Kimurak itself was a ghost town. The Church's two most supportive centers of population weren't in for the count, so the fact that the Bishop still retained power and would continue to do so until further notice…it just reeked of corruption on such a deep level inside the system that it seemed obvious it was the Church itself who was behind everything. The Church's influence reached far; a loyalty bought on fear and gold. Orphen had no doubt now that the remaining Lords of Parliament were all Kimurakists; and if their youngest daughters were being held by the Church, they surely would have no cause to fear that. Radical leadership or no, it was all a clandestine power play they were only able to pin on the Tower of Kiba because the Tower had been forced into silence by a barricade constructed of magic that was completely foreign, and yet…

Prone in front of the rustling fire that night, reclined uncomfortably on his bedroll as the others slept, Orphen found it frustratingly difficult not to count the day as a total loss. Only a few of the city's districts were still habitable, and the morale was predictably low. What was more, the sight of Orphen and Hartia's Tower pendants had provoked more than one ugly confrontation; while every and any avenue they'd had into information on the barrier magic taught at the court had been a dead end. The court sorcerers, the Order of the Thirteen Angels, had been practically obliterated in the fires. Only a few surviving members and students were still in the city, either nowhere to be found or utterly unwilling to meet with them.

Tomorrow would likely be no different. He'd have to find a way around the obstacle his obvious affiliation with the Tower presented. It had just been the pendant, he could have simply hidden it. The conundrum was more on a simple level. The information he required was closely guarded and the only sort of person who would understand it, ask about it, but not already _have_ the information would be a sorcerer who had not studied at court. Well, there were only so many places to study sorcery in Kiesalhima, and even fewer to learn any value of technique, which made it obvious. If he were a sorcerer _requiring_ that information, plain and simple, he had to have come from the Tower. He could insist all he liked that he was not affiliated with them whatsoever, but the fact was that if he didn't on some level have the same interests as the Tower, he would not require the information on super-standard barriers to begin with, for it was the Tower itself that was sealed in thus. Normally it wouldn't have been a problem and he would be welcomed with open arms. But that was before the Tower had been accused of torching their city, the palace, murdering the Emperor and committing high treason, assassination and mutiny on the Imperial Federation of Kiesalhima.

Therefore, he hadn't gotten anywhere at all. Instead, all he could do was lay there by the fire, exhausted and cursed to wakefulness by his brain that wouldn't switch off. He wouldn't let it slow down. It was better to wrack himself coming up with a solution, doing something useful with all that nervous energy, than to let his thoughts turn towards why he needed that solution. Every time he tried to settle down a bit, close his eyes and focus, inevitably she was there waiting for him in various states of imagined distress. He would begin to think of things like how it had been six days since he'd last seen her. Six days since he'd heard her voice. Seven days since he'd touched her, had his arms around her. Seven days since he'd last kissed her.

But it felt like more.

"If you don't start getting some sleep at night, you're going to be completely useless come next week," Hartia said on the other side of the fire, his voice breaking the silence suddenly enough to make Orphen start. "Tomorrow's another day, Krylancelo."

He sighed. "I can't."

"You can. Close your eyes, for chrissake. If you purposely lay there worrying about her, of course you're never going to fall asleep. Aren't you tired? How long has it _been_?"

"I'm not worrying about anybody, goddamnit, and I've been sleeping just fine. Thank you," he spat.

Hartia sat up on his bedroll finally, scowling over at him. "For crying out loud. _Look_ at you, dumbass. You look like crap. You don't sleep at night. You eat practically nothing. Don't think I'm an idiot and haven't paid attention. Don't tell me you're not beating yourself up over this because I _know_ you, and I know you are. And God, if you're not worried about her there's something wrong with you. Because I'm worried to death and so is Majic. He's also worried about _you_, if you hadn't noticed."

"I know. There's nothing I can do about it. He's a nice kid, he worries about people."

"Which is to imply you don't."

Now Orphen sat up, wrists hanging over steeled knees, scowling across the fire pit at Hartia, his face lit up bright amber by the flames. "What do you want me to say? _Fine_, I'm worried. Why wouldn't I be? The last few days has done nothing but make that worse. I can't believe no one is coming out and just saying how obvious it is who caused all this, and yet we can't make an inch of headway because everyone has been potty trained around here to think the Tower is out to eat them."

"Gee, sounds familiar. I think I used to know someone like that…"

"Ugh. I don't need this right now." With that, he leaned back on his elbows, ready to turn his back to both Hartia and the fire pit.

"Something finally happened between you and Cleo, didn't it?"

He'd meant to say no, he really did. He'd meant not to miss a beat. "Huh?"

God, why was it that usually he could lie so incredibly naturally and believably except when he really needed to?

"Something happened, didn't it? It only makes sense, Krylancelo, you've been handling it admirably but how long were you planning on putting it off?"

Orphen threw an arm over his forehead, wanting so bad to lie, to tell him to fuck off, _anything_ but give voice to thoughts that were bound to make him feel even more awful than he already did. But he couldn't.

"What makes you say that?" he asked him disconsolately, his voice weak and muffled by his arm hiding his face.

He heard him shuffle around, presumably sitting up further. "You act as though nobody could possibly have seen it coming."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say _no_."

After a long pause, he sighed, keeping his face hidden. "How did you know?"

"Well, I didn't _know_ until you said that, but I guessed a long time ago there was something going on." There was a smirk in that comment that Orphen could hear without even looking.

"There wasn't _anything_ going on a long time ago," he corrected irritably.

"It figures you would say that. You were the one that way it away. I've known you a long time, Krylancelo, and even though you've changed through the years, you don't usually give anyone the time of day if they don't interest you in one way or another. I noticed because of how snappy you get around her, the way you'd scowl at her like she was just the worst thing in the world."

Orphen turned his head, looking at him from under his arm. "I don't follow you at all."

Hartia shrugged. "I guess it's hard to explain. I guess it's just that a lot of the time it would have been easier to just ignore her and you didn't."

"She's impossible to ignore."

"For you, maybe."

"Oh, what the hell," he spat, sitting up fully, pushing a hand through his hair and looking Hartia hard in the eye. "_Fine_, something…happened. Do I feel good about it? No. Does it make me feel worse about not being able to help her when she needed me? _Yes_. But don't start in making it more than it is…"

He held his hands up. "Oh, far be it from me to imply anything about your romance…"

"It's _not_ a goddamn romance," he interjected, his voice rising a little more than he intended. He cleared his throat. "It's just…you know…"

Across the fire, Hartia's mouth curled up a bit. "Ahhh. Yeah, I think I do. I wonder how long something like that can go on without the girl expecting more?"

He sneered. "What more could she want?"

"I mean from you, jackass."

"She said she didn't…" It was true, she had said that. It just didn't sound true coming out of his mouth. He couldn't remember if it had sounded like the truth when it came from her.

"Hmm. I wonder how much you believe that."

"Goddamnit. I'm done talking about this." He flopped back down on the bedroll, righting his shearling blanket and pulling it over him with an angry jerk, turning his back to Hartia and the fire.

"After all, they do say the noblest and most pitiable thing in the world is to want love…"

"I said I'm _done_," he growled. "Just drop it. I shouldn't have even answered you, you have entirely too much interest in the subject."

"Fine, fine. Get some sleep then, why don't you? Honestly, I can't imagine what she sees in you."

"Neither do I, happy?"

"Immensely," Hartia said approvingly. "Did she tell you, perchance, what it is she sees in you? Or _that_ she sees something at all?"

"Christ. I've I known what an insufferable blabbermouth you were at this time of night, I'd have never invited you along. You gossip like a woman."

"Aw. Hasn't anybody ever told you that friendship is all about compromise?"

"I _am_ compromising. You're still alive, aren't you? I'm going back to sleep."

"Liar, you weren't asleep to begin with. You're far too young to be such a curmudgeon."

"Well, it was more goddamn restful than having this circus of a conversation with you, Shrimp Man. The rest I can't begin to comment on."

He just closed his eyes, trying with all his might not to expand on the thoughts Hartia had raised in his mind. He thought about obstruction spells. He thought about war. He thought about rain. He thought about a lot of things, laying quietly, listening to the lonely rustle of the burning pine logs before his sense of time started to grow foggy.

It was particularly times like these that it was the most difficult not to think about her. Currently he fought memories that were sneaking up on him of their last night together before she'd been spirited away: laying in bed late at night, nude and entangled, having a guardedly tame but distinctly peculiar conversation between rounds before things had deteriorated bizarrely as they were apt to do between them. He just never knew which direction it was going to come from.

But that was the real truth. Of course she wanted more. What she'd said wasn't entirely true, not that he hadn't guessed at it…

"Orphen?"

"What?" he growled, rolling onto his back. "I was nearly asleep."

And there she was, standing beside the fire in a long loose robe, walking toward him with an unearthly silence and slowness that made him decide immediately that she wasn't really there.

Oh, but it looked like she was, in his mind at least. It hadn't occurred to him that the voice had been hers. Or that no one else in present company called him that.

He sat up and stared wordlessly as she moved forward in front of the flames, the firelight spilling through the robe, the curves of her body revealed like a shadow play as she passed in front of it, knelt before him, and eased soundlessly into his lap, one knee on each side of him. Her hands caught his face and tipped it up to hers to kiss him, her mouth soft and insistent.

Her fingers pushed back into his hair, her thighs hugging his hips, and even though she wasn't there, he wrapped his arms around her waist and took as much comfort in that embrace as the illusion would allow.

"This is a dream," he whispered this desolately into her ghostly mouth, and felt her lips move against his when she replied.

"How do you know?"

"Because…you're gone. And even if you weren't…you wouldn't be doing this…" Leave it to him, to reason with a dream.

"Why not?" she murmured, those rose petal lips dragging against his. Dream or not, it was torture.

"You hate me. Remember?"

Her hands slid back through his hair, combing it through her fingers thoughtfully, drawing an inadvertent shiver from him. Finally she replied. "Mmm. No, I don't."

"I know…"

"Then why were you worried that I did?"

"I wasn't _worried_…just…you said you did."

"Well, like you, I say a lot of things I don't mean." She wriggled in his lap, the phantom robe pooled around her. He slipped a hand past the open hem to find the velvet curve of her hip. He had to commend himself for his imagination. "You know that. I don't hate you any more than _you_ hate me."

"_That's_ what worries me."

A little dry laugh. Another languid kiss. "You have to hurry up, you know."

"Hurry up?"

"Yes. You're afraid you're going to be too late, aren't you?"

"I...I'm trying. And I'm not _afraid_."

"Yes, you are. You're afraid something's happened already. You're afraid of what you'll do if they've killed me. And more than any of those things, you're afraid of _this_." She pressed her palm to his chest, over his beating heart, the butterfly wing flutter of her lips whispering against his earlobe.

"…I'll figure something out. I promise," he murmured, unnerved. He didn't want to know what she meant by that.

"You know what I meant by that. Don't bother lying to me, I'm not even here, remember? Lying to me is just lying to yourself, even though you've always been pretty good at that."

"Dammit, Cleo…you…don't under_stand_."

"And it's no good arguing with me, either, pal." She punctuated that with a slow, deep kiss that made him ache. "Closing your eyes on something doesn't make it go away. Just because you won't see it doesn't mean it's not still there. It's not that I don't understand. It's you that doesn't understand. Come on, Orphen. You're not going to put it off so long that you really are too late, are you?"

She took his face in her hands and tilted it up to look at her shadowy visage; the line of blood was still running down her neck from Leticia's dagger, down her throat and past the neckline of her robe. "You always do that, let the past ruin the future because you can't let it go. Why can't you just live?"

But in the bizarre timeless incongruence of a dream, as she was speaking those words, she was already gone, evaporated; and he was running, running down an alley, hands slick with blood, knowing he was going to be sick as soon as he stopped. So he ran. He ran until his lungs felt too small and his veins pumped acid.

The man had recognized him; that much was clear. The fact was that he was still famous among anyone who came from the Tower, and he couldn't let him live. He couldn't have let him walk away after he had seen his face.

So he killed him. Sank a stiletto into his heart, in and out, fast like the strike of lightening, and the old man hit the ground, his eyes staring up at him in the dark, gasping obscenely. "Krylancelo…"

He was sixteen. And it wasn't the first time he'd murdered. It was just the first time no one was paying him for it. The first time it was personal.

And he ran. Ran thinking about Azalea. Wondering if she'd be disappointed in him. Because it was only Azalea that mattered to him. She was his sister, his mother, his family, his role model, his everything.

His "family" before, all of them, it had been just an illusion. All he had was Azalea. All he _needed_ was Azalea.

If Azalea would be proud of him, it didn't matter what he had to do to save her. And to save her, he had to stay alive. And to stay alive, he had to do what he had to do. He had to make money somehow with something he was good at. And it just so happened he was good at killing people. _And_ it just so happened that there was a man willing to pay him for that.

Actually, he was very good at it. And Whorl Carlen had a long list of jobs for him.

He kept running, the silent dark filled with his strained breathing and the echoing clack of his footfalls. Too many footfalls. Someone was behind him.

He swung around, keeping his hood up, poising his hands. He wouldn't use magic if he didn't have to.

"Krylancelo?"

Blink.

"Krylancelo, have you been listening to a word I've just said?"

"Ah…I'm sorry…" he said, looking up from where he was staring blankly, his cheek propped up in his hand. Now he was thirteen.

Korgon frowned a little before turning back to the projection on the screen. "Krylancelo, what can you tell me about the Ailmanka Barrier?"

"Ah." He swallowed hard, pulling that information out of the back of his mind as quickly as he could. "It is a translucent barrier surrounding the continent, presumed constructed by the Tenjin over a thousand years ago, which cannot be penetrated by physical or magical means."

"And why?" Korgon was such a shit, his first day as an instructor and already he was picking on him. Like he'd never dozed off during review before.

"To protect themselves from the invasion of foreign armadas during the war that resulted in the settling of the Kiesalhima mainland."

"Not bad. Now how does this conflict with other concepts of the barrier?"

Krylancelo blinked, and across the room, a hand went up enthusiastically. Komikron. Of course.

Korgon turned, and nodded to him, and Komikron stood up. His hair was braided to keep it out of his face while he worked. Personally, Krylancelo never understood why he didn't just have it cut, the braids were ridiculous. "The conflict you're referring to would be the teachings of the Kimurak Church, whose scriptures indicate that the barrier was raised by the Dragon Families upon their arrival to the continent, in order to spare themselves the wrath of the Gods. The Gods of the Giant's Continent were enraged by their creation of sorcery, which had caused a distortion in the World's Law and made the Gods visible to their eyes."

"Very good, Komi. Go ahead and take a seat there."

"Oh, Korgon," Komikron interrupted. "Just really fast, I have a question."

Krylancelo glared over at him. What a suck up. After class, he'd have to make sure to remind him just how much he looked like a girl with those stupid braids. An ugly girl. An ugly girl in a _labcoat_.

"In the Kimurak Scriptures…I've read them of course; the final chapter, the Arcana, covers the circumstances and perils under which the true believers will one day return to the Giant's Continent to sit at the feet of the Gods. I wanted to ask, how could they do that with the barrier in tact?"

"Well, the short answer is that they couldn't. It cannot be passed through physically, nor by translocating. But, being such true believers, you'd imagine that if such a thing came to pass, they would probably have inside information on how the barrier was created." Korgon smiled at this, a little titter rippled through the class. "But I have to comment on the incredibility of a barrier that can keep out a horde of vengeful Gods. I leave it all up to you to decide how to view it, of course, though when analyzed with our most advanced instruments, the energy creating the barrier barely registers readably. We can only compare it on the most rudimentary level with other Tenjin magic we've uncovered in various ruins across the continent, but still this is the most likely summary. On that note…"

"Orphen, dammit…just…"

"Huh?" He looked up from writing in his ledger, checking his finances. As too often seemed the case, he was running low. But this particular job had required a little more time than usual. He just hoped his compensation would make all of this bullshit worth it.

And there had been quite a lot of bullshit this time around. Next he was headed to Masmaturia, where Carlen already had a job waiting for him. It was going to be bloody freezing there.

Constance Magee was leaning on the back of his chair, pretending as usual she didn't know what he was doing in Urban Lama. Even her goddamned boss suspected him, he just didn't have a thing to go on other than his rather visceral dislike of him, which suited him just fine. Royal Police or not, he'd be done with this job and vanished before they could point a finger in anyone's direction. And they'd have Coggie investigating it, no doubt. As though she could do anything without his help. How she'd gotten this far in life, he'd never know.

Probably just more of Dorothy Howser's influence to further her hopeless sisters along. And just another reason to get the hell away from this city as soon as he could.

He tapped his pencil on the paper, not looking back at her, even as she ran her fingers over his shoulders. "What do you want me to say? That I'm going to stay? You know I'm not, Coggie. You know I _can't_."

She swung and grabbed the edge of his book, slammed it shut, and glared at him. "You got me demoted. You don't feel responsible for that? You _owe_ me."

"I don't follow you." He glared up at her. She was fairly plain but not unattractive, with straight brown hair and brown eyes which were currently squinting furiously at him. She was a year older than him, though no one would ever know it just by looking at her. He'd just turned nineteen a few weeks before. Not that he celebrated it or anything. He never did. "You don't have a clue what you're doing most of the time. That's not my fault. Exposing you for your ineptitude, maybe that's my fault."

She slapped him. Hard. Hard enough he felt his teeth click together when his head whipped to the side. He'd barely collected his thoughts before she'd grabbed his face and kissed him instead. And she didn't seem to have any idea how to do _that_, either.

His left hand snapped his pencil in half, and then he was twenty-one.

"Cleo!"

She was there ahead of him, at the edge of the trees, calling for that stupid Reiki, who'd run off. Again.

"Shit. Cleo!" He sloshed through the wet, waist-high weeds at her. He should've just left her out here, but trouble followed that girl like a shadow. It was more likely that something would happen to her while she was out chasing that little beast than that it wouldn't, and usually it was less work helping her prevent trouble than getting her out of it.

And one of these days she was bound to get herself into something he couldn't easily rescue her from.

She turned around, soaked through with the summer rainfall, her blue dress almost transparent to his eyes, clinging to her body. Her face looked pale, her eyes bright with panic.

"Orphen…he's gone…" she sounded like she might cry.

When he finally reached her, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back from the treeline. "I already said, chasing him doesn't do any good. He can take care of himself, don't you think? Just stop looking for him and he'll come running back eventually."

"But…"

"Come on, we're going to goddamn drown out here."

He towed her back through the tall grass, the rain coming down so hard it hurt where it struck his shoulders. He picked up speed, pulling her along, until he heard her struggling to keep up, her sandals slipping on the wet leaves, but instead of getting angry, she was starting to laugh. He turned to look back at her, and he was already somewhere else.

"Krylancelo, there you are."

He looked around the dark library, his arms tight around a pile of books. He was fifteen. "Where's Azalea?"

Tish frowned at the name. The two of them were always scratching each other's eyes out. "She went ahead already, they all did."

"Oh. Except you?"

"No, I was waiting for you, stupid. Don't I always wait for you? Geez."

Then he was face down in the mud at age twenty-two, cold rain hammering down on his back with such force one might think it was trying to push him all the way under the surface, into his grave. The burning pain in his chest pushed the breath from his body, a hot wet lake gathering under him, soaking into his shirt; and he could smell it, the coppery astringent smell of his own blood. It hurt too much to move. Agony was screaming along his nerve endings. They were going to take her. And he heard her scream for him.

"ORPHEN!!!"

He jerked up with a dry, choking gasp, out of sleep, throwing back the blanket, soaked with sweat despite the cold November air, and was greeted with a little blue tail in his face. Reiki had abandoned Majic and curled up in the curve between his shoulder and neck. Who knew why. He thought the little bastard hated him.

Now the deep dragon cub looked up at him expectantly while he surveyed the camp, breathing as hard as if he'd run a mile. Across the fire, Majic and Hartia both slept silently on. Despite that the bizarre dream had felt like it lasted hours, he couldn't have been asleep long. The fire had barely diminished, still burning a bright hole in the pre-dawn darkness.

He sat up completely, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his hands quaking just that little bit. This was exactly why it was better to just sit up at night sometimes, for just this reason. His brain was an expert at conjuring just that sort of torture to drag him through while he helplessly slept, unable to defend himself against his own memories and their many twisted variations. He couldn't remember if those things he remembered had happened quite in the way he dreamt them, and he was too shaken to process them properly. That and, as dreams went, the details were already foggy and second by second, he could recall less of what he'd dreamed. From what he could remember, it had been an imaginary conversation with Cleo, followed by a rampant, random cross-section of the entire miserable, burning wreckage of his life so far.

Yay. Was it really any wonder he could never sleep?

Sitting beside his hand on the bedroll, Reiki whimpered softly, pawing at Orphen's cloak that he'd had wrapped around him, sniffing it. Smelling Cleo in the fabric, no doubt.

Reiki sniffed at the fabric, then looked back up and him. And whined.

Still panting, Orphen glared down at him. "What's with you?"

The whelp looked up at him soundlessly, and he lay back down, his muzzle between his paws, green eyes bright and doleful even in the dark.

Hesitatingly, he reached down and scratched his little blue head, watching those bright eyes drop closed, a high whine coming out almost like a plea before standing abruptly and climbing into Orphen's lap where he curled back up, almost dejectedly, staring out at the fire.

He stroked the indigo fur on Reiki's back absently, looking down at him. It wasn't the little guy's fault, but it was inevitable that the pup made him think about Cleo.

About what might have, very possibly, probably already had happened to her by now. Whatever it was they wanted with her, they weren't likely to keep her locked up for a week before they did it. That entire line of thought made his stomach turn to ice. The problem was he just couldn't imagine what their motives could be; and nothing he'd read and no one with whom they'd spoken had heard anything about the Church's detainment of aristocratic girls. Most of them thought it sounded like a vicious rumor, and if he hadn't heard it himself, he would have agreed. It was just too strange.

What would they do to her? Would they kill her? _Why_ would they kill her? Cleo's family weren't even Kimurakists. Even if they were aristocrats. Which, actually, now that he thought about it, was sort of peculiar.

Really peculiar. He'd never thought about it before. There was a question to write down for the next time he had to visit Tistiny Everlasting, whenever that would be. Even if it was just to spit in her face.

He had a hundred other unlikely but equally unsettling scenarios rattling in his head, and he stared hard into the fire. Well, he was certainly awake now. Some of the horrible things he'd been dreaming of were creeping up on him now that the initial panic he'd felt upon waking had cleared, and he blinked back an emotional reaction that was completely unnecessary.

Just random moments in his life that didn't mean anything. But in his mind, some of those memories were harder to ignore when his mind could recall their faces so clearly. That old man in Aoivanna, looking up at him in the dark. Komikron and his ridiculous braids. Korgon's unreadable expression. He definitely remembered that day.

They'd been reviewing conflicting records of the origins of the Ailmanka barrier that day, on Korgon's first day instructing. Komikron, always pushing the envelope, had glommed onto the mention of the Church and tried to start an all out debate. And it worked.

Oh.

The Ailmanka barrier. Waitasecond.

A translucent barrier that cannot be penetrated either physically or by translocation, presumed erected by the Tenjin over a thousand years ago, in an attempt to protect themselves from foreign armadas in the war that resulted in the settlement of the Kiesalhiman mainland. The only barrier he'd ever heard of that let nothing, absolutely nothing through, remained erected indefinitely with no apparent energy source, and could not be torn down or deconstructed through any conventional means.

That is, it had been the only barrier he'd ever heard of like that, until he'd set foot outside Taflem four days before and seen the barricade the Kimurak Church, or whoever was doing sorcery on behalf of the Kimurak Church, had erected around the city to keep the occupants of the Tower in, and any friends or allies securely out.

Well, friends, allies and Krylancelo Finrandi, prodigal son of the Tower of Kiba.

Son of a bitch. So that's what it reminded him of. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

It was just too bad he didn't know much else about the barrier aside from that text book definition he'd branded into his brain years before. But almost ten years later, it was finally worth something.

But since it was assumed to have originated from the Tenjin, there was at least _one_ person in the world he knew would have an entire library of answers to his questions and any number of theories he couldn't begin to formulate on his own; and that person just so happened to be back in Alenhaten, where all this had started anyway. Ha!

Orphen almost laughed aloud, to finally have something, anything to go on. Christ. Sometimes he was so blind. He ruffled Reiki's fur enthusiastically, and the pup looked up at him, almost with question in his little green eyes, letting out another high, mournful whine.

"I know you miss her…" he told him softly, smoothing the fur on his head.

He shifted his gaze back to the fire, where, in his mind, he'd seen her standing seemingly only minutes before. Just a cruel, achingly beautiful phantom of her his vindictive mind had fabricated to torment him. To remind him of everything he didn't want to think about. Those feelings of failure. Of loss. Of _fear_. And of everything else he felt _about her_ that he continually forced into a dark corner of his mind, that, like Pandora's Box, once he'd accidentally let them loose…that night…that night she'd shown up in his bed…

That night that, against every drop of his better judgment, without thinking, he'd kissed her. That night that suddenly something screamed to the surface, unignorable and blinding, and he'd taken his first chance to run from it. He'd been desperate to forget about it. He'd wanted to apologize. He'd wanted to take it back. He'd wanted to do it again.

He'd wanted her in the worst way. It hadn't taken long for him to succumb…and since then…that first tryst in Totokanta…it had all just gotten worse with a plummeting inertia. Like a plunging fall off a cliff.

God. Damnit. _No_.

He'd been trying to just react on instinct, work to solve the problem, anything to shift the focus away from all those tangled, uncontrollable, painful emotions. And that's just what he meant to do now. He mentally stamped out that train of thought like a kitchen fire, squeezing his eyes shut to block it out. He had other things to worry about right now. Not that. Not _now_.

There was no one he could willingly admit any of it to anyway; he _didn't_ want to talk about it. Didn't want to _think_ about it. He almost envied Reiki for being allowed to blatantly communicate his distress. But of course the whelp would be lonely without her around, would miss her: he loved her. She was his family. She was his everything. And he knew how it felt to lose that. He _knew_ the horrible, all-consuming hole that left in someone, beast or man. Of course he _missed_ her.

He finished that statement in a bare whisper, more to himself than to anyone. "…So do I."


	14. The Wheel of Fortune

**Chapter Fourteen: The Wheel of Fortune**

She opened the door covered in flour and her hair knotted on top of her head, with a look of frustration that quickly gave way to surprise, even concern. "Orphen! My _god_, you look awful."

It was true he looked distinctly more frail than usual, a little drawn and pale swathed in his black clothes. The addition of dark circles under his eyes did nothing to lessen the intimidation factor he usually drug around behind him like a giant shadow, to say nothing of the impatient scowl carved on his face which only grew deeper at Stephanie's succinct statement that took the place of a greeting.

"I've heard that a lot lately," he groused, "Thanks for your concern."

"I _was_ concerned! You left town before I could even come back to the Inn last week! What in the world were you _thinking_?" She wove them into the house with one hand, the other swinging the door open more fully.

Majic followed the men in, anxiety clear on his face while his Master replied irritably. "I was thinking it was better to get moving rather than lay around waiting for you to show up, I imagine."

She shut the door on the cold morning, brushing white powder off her apron with her hands fanned out. The house smelled like something baking, sweet and warm, like apples or maybe rhubarb. Majic wasn't sure what it was, but he did know it made him feel suddenly homesick and, inexplicably, a little bit lonely. He looked up to see Stephanie shaking Hartia's hand and mentioning it had been quite awhile since she'd seen him, following it up with a remark about getting flour on his black robes if she hugged him, then quite intentionally turned and threw her arms around Orphen, who patted her shoulder stiffly.

Majic couldn't help but be reminded of how Cleo would be bristling violently at such a display, paying no mind to Orphen's reaction which obviously indicated, as it always did, that he would prefer not to be touched. She released him, predictably leaving a vague pale ghost of her embrace in flour across his torso.

"And I see obviously you've made little progress since…unless you're not going after her?"

"Of course I am." he snapped, seemingly unaware that "we" may have been the more appropriate term.

Stephanie nodded at him, then gestured toward the kitchen. "If you don't mind, everyone, I need to keep an eye on the stove," she said pleasantly, herding them forward through the arched doorway into a terracotta tiled galley, surrounded by bright picture windows with open wooden shutters and a brick fireplace. The bright autumn morning shone in through the tilted slats, lighting up the room and the center-island covered in rolled out dough, flour, sliced fruits and an array of empty bowls and dirty spoons.

Majic pulled out a wooden chair to sit at the small round table beside the fire, watching how his Master hung back at the doorway uncomfortably, eyeing the homey mess on the countertops with obvious distaste.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Baking, stupid." Stephanie replied with a good natured grin, as she always did, elbowing past him through the door. Who knew how she'd ever put up with Orphen and his bleak pessimism for as long as she had as his partner. "What does it look like?"

He was still scowling at the mess. "A catastrophe."

"You will never make a good husband," she quipped lightly, reaching for a hand towel bunched on the countertop. "Though I'm sure that doesn't bother you."

"Not in the slightest."

"Stephanie, what are all the pies for?" Majic interjected with a fond sense of familiarity, feeling this as good a place as any to move the conversation elsewhere before Orphen became more irritable and impatient than he'd already been all morning. From the troubled expression on his face, he was ready to jump to business.

She smiled, adjusting her glasses on her nose and wiping her bangs out of her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Ah, Tim's family is coming in for the Harvest Festival. So, I thought, what better time to make use of all these apples?"

Majic eyed the pies already cooling on the counter, caramelized fruit and sugar bubbling up out of the vents neatly cut in the golden crusts. They looked incredible, which wasn't much of a shock. Vaguely he wondered if there was anything Stephanie wasn't good at. Cleo hadn't been completely unreasonable in being jealous of her, if not for that one glaring fact that would have stood between her and any man that knew about it. He'd decided long ago that she'd probably decided to keep it from Tim.

But of course, Cleo had been jealous of her for all the wrong reasons.

"Well then." Stephanie dusted off her hands with the towel and crossed her arms. "I suppose this is the part where I ask you what you're doing here instead of knocking down the doors at the Tower to help your partner."

Now Orphen's arms were crossed. "You just assume I'm doing nothing."

"Of course not…I'm merely disappointed is all. I had hoped you were doing what you do best by making trouble…"

"There's a barrier." He interrupted succinctly. "That's why I'm here."

"A barrier? Since when is that a problem?"

He was giving her a look. "One very similar to the Ailmanka Barrier."

Stephanie didn't answer right away, only seemed to cross her arms more tightly and shift her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, she blinked. "…Are you serious?"

"Do I look serious?"

"_Yes_."

"Then I must be serious."

Now her brow furrowed, her pies and apples and any other present company totally forgotten. "What do you mean?"

"A translucent barrier that cannot be penetrated either physically or by magical means. Too tightly woven to let anything through, except possibly oxygen…gasses that can penetrate the net. It cannot be broken with standard deconstruction magic. Could _never_ have been cast by anyone who studied exclusively at the Tower." His arms were still folded, a print of her flour dusted embrace still clinging to his cloak and leather garments. He paused before going on. "A barrier like this is currently standing all around the perimeter of Taflem, walling off anyone from either entering or leaving the city. A similar one stands around the Monastery in Kimurak. I need you to tell me what you might know about something like that."

"A duplication of Tenjin magic? I don't know how it could be possible!"

Majic watched them. This was what had made Cleo jealous. The intensity of their information exchanges. They had a symbiotic relationship, she and Orphen. Stephanie coveted knowledge, and Orphen offered information and endless conundrums with missing pieces in exchange for the disclosure of everything else she knew on the subject. Though this exchange was of a different nature than usual: both of them were deadly serious, arms crossed defensively, both wearing identical expressions of anxiety.

"Even with all of the information available? What kind of power would be required for something like that?"

"_Massive_…if it's even possible, it would have to have been done by someone who had studied the Nornir extensively; a sorcerer, obviously. Someone who'd had to have had access to immense resources and knowledge, relics and materials that the scientific community doesn't know are available. And a frightening amount of energy."

"Like perhaps one of the Thirteen Angels?"

Stephanie blinked at this, her eyebrows going up. ""Well…I've never personally been able to access the Imperial library, but I have to imagine it's likely they have quite a collection of studies on the ruins and relics and texts left behind. It's not unreasonable to think they have materials that are kept closely guarded for whatever reason anything is ever kept away from the eyes of the public. But to be perfectly honest, Orphen, I can't tell you exactly what it would take…or who would be capable of creating such an impressive construct. I'm more interested in the fact, though, that if what you say is true; that not only is someone able to create such a barrier, but someone also has a way of passing through it at will."

Orphen's hand went to his forehead to push his hair back. "You're right. I hadn't even considered that…somehow…"

Stephanie backed up, expression deep in thought, and she turned towards the kitchen, catching sight of Majic and seemingly remembering her other guests. "Oh…can't I offer you all some pie? After all, I seem to have made more than I realized…Majic," she gestured to the boy fondly. "If you wouldn't mind helping me out a moment?"

While Majic agreed, and stood to help her gather plates, Orphen shot an annoyed glare at the sudden diversion, crossing over the floor to sit at the table with Hartia, whose gaze finally pulled away from the burning fire.

"So," he said in a low voice, watching Majic and Stephanie cutting into a pastry across the galley, nodding affirmation to whatever the boy had asked. "How long did you say you worked with her again?"

Orphen looked at him sidelong, not moving his head. "What?"

"Stephanie. How long did you work together?"

"I don't know. Guess it was about a year or so. What for?"

"And what were you working together _on_?"

"Baltanders. Stephanie is a scholar on Nornir History and Lore. I'd probably still be looking for that damned sword if she hadn't deciphered some texts documenting how that type of energy settles in sedentary materials…"

"Hmm." Harita leered at him furtively. "So you're telling me you worked with her that long and you _never_…"

With raised eyebrows, Orphen cut him off as sharply as was possible with his voice dropped low as it was. "Now I _have_ told you before that when I was first working with Stephanie, before the accident, she was a _he_…"

Hartia looked at him blankly, the insinuative grin having dropped so quickly from his face it was a wonder it didn't clatter on the ground. "Oh. Yes."

"And you still have the sack to ask me, huh?"

He blinked vacantly then slowly, the redhead brought up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Let's just pretend I didn't say that."

"Yeah. How about that."

Hartia dropped his voice a little lower, leaning forward with his elbows on the tabletop. "I was just thinking how you've got a habit of getting rather friendly with your pretty female cohorts. Present company excluded, understand. After all, what was the name of that girl in Urban Lama, Const—huack!"

Orphen elbowed him sharply under the table, catching sight of Majic and Stephanie carrying plates toward them in his peripheral. Strangely, as had been the case for days, he just wasn't interested in eating anything. He figured it was just another symptom proving that he wasn't in great health at the moment; between the cough that attacked him at random times and the constant chest pain, eating had lost a lot of its allure when all it did usually was make him feel worse.

But he had to be thankful for their timing, arriving with slices of pie just in time to save him from having to squirm out of a conversation with Hartia about something he had always shied away from discussing with him. He would invaryingly start asking just why he'd spent so long in that hellhole of a city, seemingly just bumming around when he was supposedly on a quest to restore their "big sister".

Somehow, he'd so far avoided confiding the details of his former profession to his friend, and he intended on keeping it that way. Despite that Azalea had been returned to herself, and his unwavering allegiance to Childman had been completely explained and therefore forgiven, there was still part of him that didn't trust him entirely with certain personal information. The same part of him that remembered Hartia's eyes dropping away from his that day, in the cold rain, standing around an empty coffin as though it wasn't, refusing to acknowledge that he wasn't crazy, that Azalea was alive. That all of it was the Tower's fault, and they just wanted it covered up and hidden away.

Just for a moment, Tistiny Everlasting came to mind.

And in any case, he didn't want to talk about Coggie. Especially with Hartia, who, for as preoccupied with such subjects as he often was, understood little regarding the complications that arose between two people having _that sort_ of relationship. Hartia read too many damned comic books, he glamorized everything as it was. It was just unfortunate Hartia had shown up in Urban Lama back then to poke around and see what he was up to. Not that they'd been particularly on friendly terms at the time, but he'd also been unable to be outright hostile to him right in front of everyone who'd been there without ruining everything he'd been working on at the time and giving himself away, when he'd been so close to completing the job. Hartia had approached him while he'd unfortunately been in the company of Constance Magee—Coggie— and her sister Bonnie, and even less fortunately, their so-called butler, that goddamned Keith Royal. If he ever saw that piece of shit again, it would be much too soon.

Luckily, they'd kept up a false friend in front in front of the others, and Hartia had snidely called him Orphen that day; saving him, probably unknowingly, from a total collapse of the shaky house of cards he'd built there in Urban Lama, almost entirely on false pretenses.

But that was over now. Only about a week later, his target fell, he vanished from Urban Lama under the cover of night, and two days later he arrived in Masmaturia a much richer man. In fact, it was that money he'd began to lend out, with interest; and his jobs from Carlen had become less of a necessity. By the time he reached Totokanta a few months later, he'd given up the business almost entirely.

Although he'd never set foot in that city since, for certainty that once the news was out, Coggie and Daian had most likely known immediately who had been responsible for the sudden death of the "Steam King".

Regardless, it became apparent that Stephanie was speaking to him again. "…any amount of speculations as to that. But when it comes to the literature on the barrier _itself_, which you haven't asked about, there is quite a bit. Not the least of which being, as you may find interesting, the purported method of _passing through_ it."

He almost dropped his fork, with which he'd been absently stabbing at a piece of baked apple, and he looked up expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Stephanie smiled demurely, forking up a bit of crust. "Indeed. Without the use of sorcery, for that matter."

"What? _How_?"

"The Tenjin were notorious for imbuing objects with energy. Just think of the Baltanders relics. The sword itself contained a dormant magic strong enough to grossly transmogrify, the armlet could magnify sorcery exponentially. These objects indeed are more effective in the hands of a sorcerer, but even a common man could make use of them with instruction. The energy isn't reliant on the user so much as it is influenced by him."

"And you're saying an object meant to be used to break the Ailmanka barrier supposedly exists?"

"Well, not so much break it as pass through it. A stone that neutralizes the weave of restricting power within a limited radius. I imagine it could be used for any barrier. I guess you haven't been keeping up on that kind of news, though, have you?"

"What _news_?" Orphen frowned irritably. He didn't much care for guessing games, particularly at times like these when time was a significant factor in his mind. Although with the way everyone was sitting around eating apple pie and blathering inanely about worthless shit, one would think they had all the time in the world.

Well, he didn't.

"The worldstone," Stephanie said, pointing her fork at him. "You've really never heard of it?"

"…No."

She frowned a little, stabbing some type of berry off her plate and popping it in her mouth, her eyes seeming to linger on Orphen's untouched pie slice. "I guess being away from the Tower as long as you have by now is going to eventually start being a detriment in that area. The study wasn't published under my name, in any case…" She shrugged. "The Worldstone is one of the Tenjin relics found on the tabernacle in the Bazilkok Temple remains on the outskirts of the city last year, in the underground temple. A stone imbued with very specific, neutralizing energy. Not unlike the relics found at Baltander's Isle, I suppose…"

"But those ruins were safeguarded by the Tower."

"But the Tower was not the head rune scholar on the site of Bazilkok. According to scrolls uncovered over ten years ago, there were passages referring to just such an item. Those corresponding documents indicate that the power of the gem, translated from Nornir runes roughly to "Worldstone", is such that it can allow safe passage through the Ailmanka barrier once they had deemed it safe to pass it. By imbuing that power into a relic, one could safeguard it and ensure passage was extremely limited. I suppose we have that to thank for the mystery of what truly lies beyond the outlying islands off the coast…aside from endless ocean."

He tried not to sound impatient. "So this stone should also allow passage through this barrier that's been set up around Taflem. Just like that?"

"If it is of the same nature, as you postulate…"

"And how do you suppose I might lay my hands on something like that? I suppose it's at the University…" He covered his face with his hands for a moment, in that moment utterly exhausted. Going through learning a spell to break the barrier might have been preferable to relying on some goddamn relic he'd have to go through hell to steal or otherwise acquire.

Stephanie smiled. One might almost call it a smirk. "Ask and you shall receive."

His head jerked up. "You have access?"

"Having been the one to translate the texts relating to it, and with a background of…albeit useless…magical studies…let's just say I didn't feel safe letting it…quite out of my sight yet. Yes, it's at the University, locked up in my vault."

"Clever." Orphen watched her a moment, skeptical. "And I don't suppose you're planning on just popping over there and borrowing it, though, are you?"

"You're going to owe me something."

"As usual. What would that be?"

With a whimsical glance out the window, she made a gesture of dismissal. "Nothing in particular, I'll have to let you know when I decide. Although come to think of it, would you mind speaking to me in the library a moment?"

Blink.

Why did everyone want to speak with him in private lately? The last time someone had pulled this on him, it had not gone well. Granted, his comfort level with Stephanie was much different than it was with Cleo's mother. But he found himself inevitably reminded of the entire encounter.

_Do you love her?_

"Ah…alright…" He watched her stand and untie her apron, draping it across the back of her chair.

She patted Majic's blonde head. "Help yourself to another piece if you like."

Majic nodded up at her with bright eyes, his thank-you muffled by a mouth full of apple and crust. You'd think the kid hadn't eaten for a week.

Orphen followed her through the door to the book lined parlor, and she closed the door behind her, turning to him as he dropped into a leather chair that sighed under his weight.

"You don't want to talk about what you want in return in front of the others?" he inquired acidly. It was peculiar Stephanie of all people request to speak in private. "What could it possibly be…?"

"No, no. I want to know what's going on. I mean what's _really_ going on."

He slowly raised an eyebrow at her, hands limp on the armrests. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Are you sick?"

"Huh? Not…not really. What are you talking about?" He figured the answer to that really depended on someone's definition of 'sick'.

"Orphen. I just cut you a slice of fresh apple pie and you haven't touched it at all. What's the matter with you? Don't think I don't know you enough that I don't notice when you're not well."

Christ. Was he really that much of a pig? Sure, it wasn't a big secret that he enjoyed eating. Like anything, there was a reason for that. He just hated being hungry. It reminded him of…bad things.

He shrugged petulantly. "Is that it? You wanted to grill me for that?"

"Yes. You're not giving me the whole story, are you?"

"Well, if you want to be overly literal about it, you've just assumed you knew the whole story since I walked in the door."

Stephanie leaned on the door with a sheepish nod. "I'm sorry. You know me. So there is something I'm missing?"

"Not especially. You know what happened. I've been doing what I can, but we've been hitting roadblocks everywhere we turn, which I guess isn't surprising. I've been all over this bloody continent in the last week trying to find something to go on. Since running up against that barrier, anyway. But I only realized what that thing reminded me of last night…"

"Laying awake all night, no doubt," she interrupted. "I wasn't kidding. You do look terrible."

"Oh good, I was worried you weren't being honest with me. Should I expect to?"

"In fact, I'm a little surprised. From what I remember of the last time you were all here, I would have almost expected you'd be glad to be rid of her. I seem to recall she ran off and you could've cared less. "

She didn't miss the guilty look that comment inspired, even as he looked away out the window. He remembered. He had cared, actually. More than he'd wanted to. But there was no reason to discuss it now.

"_Orphen_." She prompted him. Apparently she thought that warranted an answer somehow.

"Yeah, well. Things change. How could anybody just…? I don't even know what they _want_ with her. It's unsettling…and no one we've asked has heard a thing about the Church detaining _anyone_. It gives me a bad feeling. I don't want to be responsible…"

"Hmm. I see. It is quite a potential fate to leave someone to. Even someone you can't get along with."

He kept looking out the window, at the gathering clouds and the morning sky. He didn't respond to that right away either.

"You don't really think I would do that, do you?" Not like he cared what she thought. He didn't know why he asked.

She shook her head. "No, I'm just giving you a hard time. I'm just concerned. You don't seem yourself. Call me crazy, but I get the feeling you're shouldering a lot of blame for this that you have no reason to…as _usual_, you arrogant—"

"You've _got_ to be kidding. They didn't even come to Everlasting Manor looking for her. They came _straight_ to me. If they hadn't found _me_, they would've passed over her entirely…"

Stephanie folded her arms. "Sorry, Orphen. I know you're not big on politics but the fact is that there's no way the Kimurak Church would have 'passed over' someone from the Everlasting house after that debacle a few years ago."

That got his attention. "What are you talking about?"

"Uh, the assassination of Margrave Everlasting," she said, as though he was a fool for not knowing. "You know, Cleo's father. I can't _believe_ you don't remember that! What were you doing about four years ago?"

Orphen thought about it. He hadn't been doing anything that allowed him the leisure to have any idea what kind of political firestorm had been going on at the time. If it didn't affect him and it wasn't involving the Tower, it wasn't an issue. Although if it had been an assassination, he was just glad to be sure it hadn't been his work. All the jobs assigned to him were of a more…messy…nature, and he didn't recall ever offing any Parliament Lords. But of course, it would be just his luck…

Stephanie didn't wait for an answer and went on, taking a seat in the other seat across from him, turning up a low-burning table lamp with a stained glass shade, lighting the slowly darkening room with a vague amber glow. "There was a huge campaign to elect him to Parliament, big accusations flew about the Government being overrun with Kimurakists in the House of Lords and their supposed opposition to secular candidates. Everything, of course, was completely denied. Then he was elected, and things died down for awhile. It was barely a year later that Everlasting suddenly was deathly ill practically overnight, and then dead the next day. It was all _over_ the papers. Allegations about murder and assassination, political conspiracies, you know. Whether it was supposed to be revenge for bringing bad press to the Church or the Parliament just weeding out undesirables…it just made it seem even more like the Church wasn't about to let its stranglehold on the Court and Parliament loosen any time soon. That was all denied too, obviously. But whether you buy it or not, you have to know the Church and whoever is holding the reins there knows everything about the Everlasting house. If they were making a list of aristocratic young women, I should think they'd make a little extra effort in obtaining someone of that name that had already caused so much trouble for them."

Just for the record, he agreed with that assessment wholeheartedly. He just felt a little too numb at all that new information to say anything just yet. He gave a distracted nod.

"Wow. What's going on with you?"

He looked up, a hand resting against his chest to press against a sudden thorn of pain there. "Uh?"

She looked genuinely concerned, leaning forward as though she were about to check his temperature, and he leaned back to counter that movement. "….do you need to lie down? I more than expected you to argue with me about it."

"Why?"

"Because you're _you_, that's why! It couldn't possibly be that you agree with me? That maybe they didn't come after her because of you."

"Maybe they didn't." No. No, if what Stephanie said was true (and why wouldn't it be), obviously they hadn't. But somehow, it didn't make him feel better at all. He looked at her vacantly. "But, knowing that…now I'm wondering about…why it seems like no one has heard a thing about the Church's detainments…"

A beat of silence followed before Stephanie gravely gave words to the uncomfortable but most probable conclusion.

"You don't think she's the only one…do you?"

Cold anxiety was gathering in him like a building thundercloud. "Why would Tish have made it sound…"

Stephanie shrugged. "To make it easier to let her go?"

He almost laughed at that, his hand pressing harder against the ache in his chest, the throbbing phantom of the gunshot wound that was a perfect illustration of just how easy it had been to let her go. "Yeah right. Try again."

"I don't know…it's just a guess. The Nobility hasn't made any noise about it, but then, you haven't been asking just anyone about it, if I know you. Though if the Church detained the daughters of their own members for safety reasons, I can't imagine why they would take exception to it or even discuss it."

"Then why only the daughters? I don't get it. And…why _force_…" Orphen turned his face to the window again, where the sky had started to blanch beneath a mass of dove gray cloud cover. His chest, mostly healed as it was, was killing him; the pressure and cold, almost liquid-like pain was beginning to affect his breathing, and the anxiety wasn't helping. He learned back in the chair, sliding down a little and inhaling slowly before turning his eyes back to his old partner.

"…Stephanie…when can you get me that stone?"

"Tonight. Too many explanations to make if I went now. And besides," she said, standing up from her chair. "If you don't lie down and rest until tonight, I'm not going to lend it to you at all."

He scoffed at that, making to stand up, but she shoved him back down into the chair by the shoulder; and his hands came up defensively. "What the hell?"

"What do you plan to do otherwise? Continue on bleeding yourself dry so that if something happens…_when_ something happens and you have to fight…you'll be completely ineffectual? You want to see how it feels to get your friends killed because you were too caught up in punishing yourself? Or maybe you just want to run yourself so dry your energy never recovers?" Her voice rose at the end. She was serious now, her face creased with unexpected and rare anger.

After all. It was the same thing that had happened to her. More or less, save the life-altering accident that followed because of it.

"I know how you don't feel like anybody can take your strength from you, Orphen, but a loss it would be. How useless would you feel then? How helpless would you feel if you lost that? Would it be worth it to you?"

He couldn't look at her. Feeling like a child, he kept his eyes on the floor. "Do _you_ feel useless?"

"No one can understand what it feels like to lose that kind of capability," she almost sounded like she might cry. "I put so much energy into studying…I didn't value my magic because it had always been there. And when it was gone…I lost myself. In _so many_ ways. I was reckless. And you're _worse_ than I was. It's a miracle you've gotten this far in life, the way you're always…throwing yourself into things like this. You think you feel responsible now_?_ Just wait and see how it feels when you fail because you didn't value your own health enough for you to make it out the other side of this in one piece. Cleo would be furious at you."

At that name, his eyes involuntarily jumped up to hers a moment before dropping back down to the floor, and Stephanie's eyebrows rose over her glasses. "Ohhh…wait a minute. You're not…"

"No, no, not you too, don't even start," he said, raking a hand through his hair with a jerking motion of frustration and standing up, this time without being forced back. He walked to a book lined wall and leaned on the shelf with both hands, glowering angrily at the titles on the cracked canvas and leather spines of books that looked like someone was supposed to read them. Had read them. Would read them again. Not the decorative artpieces they were in the Everlasting house. None of that porcelain, no-touching perfection he just couldn't stand.

It seemed she may have smiled, though her face wore a vague pinch of distress. She followed him to the bookshelf and walked along it silently a moment, before extracting a black bound text.

"Why don't you sit and make yourself useful for a few hours, at least? Have some tea. My research report on the Worldstone is bound on the desk over there if you're so inclined. Or you can start at the beginning here." Here she thrust the dusty black tome into his hands.

"Either way, I'm not going to be able to get into the vault easily until at least nightfall so you're stuck here." She opened the library door with her brow still vaguely furrowed, and looked back over her shoulder, past him and out the window. "And it's probably all the better that you stay inside. The Kimurak Church may not be terribly popular here, but it's best you don't bring any attention to yourself by reminding everyone about the spectacle you created last week in the middle of town. Who knows what kind of trouble could arise. Besides. It looks like rain."

She turned and left, closing the double doors behind her and leaving him in the whirring mechanisms of his own mind. Only after a few moments did he look down at the volume in his hands. In flaking silver embossed letters, the cover read:

_Sacred Gospel of the Kimurak Conclave in Five Books: _

_The Memory of Paradise._

_The Book of Exile._

_The Book of Solitude._

_The Rosemead Divinity._

_The Arcana._

It was three cups of tea, twice turning up the wick on the stained-glass oil lamp, and one impromptu face-down nap on the desk later that he awoke, disoriented, his breath condensing warm and wet on the table top, his neck cramped down like a yoked oxen, the sound of raindrops clicking on the library window glass.

He rose a hand to his face, pushing his palms against his eyes to clear out the vague images from sleep. If he'd dreamed, he didn't remember what about, which suited him fine.

Before resting his eyes for a minute that had turned into forty-five, he'd made it to the middle of the Book of Exile before all of it started getting jumbled up in his brain. He just didn't understand half of it. How people remembered enough Scripture to quote; how people kept it all straight in their _head_, he had no idea. All the names and dates and lineage and who begat who…it didn't seem they'd have enough room to remember their own name.

The old language used and the tiny print had given him a headache, a pinched feeling behind his eyes that made it more difficult to blink the sleep away and focus. The book was open on the table in front of him, the columns of tiny black print all looking like crawling black ants shivering on the yellowing pages.

He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. If he'd learned anything, he didn't know. At least he was killing time.

And where had he left off?

Squinting down at the pages, he drug his fingers down the paper, paging through randomly, still half immersed in a dream he couldn't remember.

"_In the Kimurak Scriptures…I've read them of course; the final chapter, the Arcana, covers the circumstances and perils under which the true believers will one day return to the Giant's Continent to sit at the feet of the Gods. I wanted to ask, how could they do that with the barrier in tact?"_

Komikron. He'd dreamed of it only last night. The suck up in his stupid ass braids. They were great friends. He wouldn't mind a little advice from him about now. Komikron would set him straight. Maybe he'd walk down into the lab, and see if he was still awake.

Krylancelo blinked rapidly. What time was it? Where…was he?

Wait. Waitwaitwait.

He pressed on his eye with the heel of his hand, feeling the pain in his head spike with every beat of his heart. No. None of that. None of that right now.

He didn't have time for that right now. Focus. Why was he reading this? He couldn't remember.

No, no. Komikron was dead. He hadn't seen Korgon for years. Childman was dead.

Hartia, who was still alive, was napping in the front room. Stephanie's front room. That's right. Majic was reading.

Majic? Who was that? He clutched his head.

Majic Lin. His apprentice. Focus. Focus on something. Pull yourself together.

Why was he reading this? He paged through it more quickly. What had Komikron said? The Final Chapter? The _Arcana_? He flipped to the end of the book with a growing sense of urgency.

It was starting to clear up a little. The Kimurak Church. The attack on Meverlenst. The death of the Emperor.

And Cleo. Cleo Everlasting. His…

His what? What was she? His…was she his _lover_?

Was that right? It didn't seem right. It seemed like she hated him, right? And he hated her.

Right?

…No, that was wrong. It was the other way around. She…

He reached over, snatched up his empty teacup, and crushed it in his hand; the china clinking duly against itself and biting into his palm. He squeezed the shards in his fist, focusing intently on that burning hot pinpoint of pain as the sharp edges sunk into his flesh.

This had worked before. It brought his brain out of that narcotic fog, where he couldn't quite remember where the line was that distinguished Krylancelo Finrandi from Orphen. The past from the present.

If there really was one.

He hadn't felt like that for awhile, and he knew how bad it could get. He'd had to bring himself out of it before he started to panic. He blinked hard, inhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut, the smoke in his mind clearing as though in a sharp gust of wind, and he slowly, shakingly dropped the bloody shards of teacup in the spotted saucer. Turning his hand in the lamplight to look at the seeping rents carved in his palm, he brought it closer to his face to inspect them as blood dripped over the edge of his thumb, a single garnet drop hitting the middle of the page of the open scripture, and he swiped it up quickly with the tip of his finger.

Under the small red circle left by the droplet, in tiny print on the thin paper was the word "daughter". This, under the circumstances, caught his interest.

The sentence was "She will be the prodigal daughter of a fallen lord, and thou wilst not know her from another until her designs against us are laden heavy with fruit."

Orphen closed his eyes, closing his bleeding hand into a fist, then opened them again, and read the entire, blood spotted passage.

"_But hearken! A dissenter is upon us! She will be the prodigal daughter of a fallen lord, and thou wilst not know her from another until her designs against us are laden heavy with fruit. These are the times of darkness, of sacrifice! Will we not do as our fathers' fathers ordained we must? The land of harmony beckons from beyond the seal, and it thus is written that for the salvation of man, to conquer this undeniable menace, the kindred of all lords shall lend their daughters to the hands of the Gods of the Giant's Continent to tilt to their lips the chalice of hemlock to vouchsafe the safe passage of all." _

For a long second, he forgot to breathe.

It…

It _couldn't_ be the answer. He'd just fallen upon this passage by mistake. Out of context. It was…just unthinkable. No one would allow…their own daughters…for such a…_no_…this couldn't be what they had in mind.

He propped up his head in his left hand, leaning over the book, right hand fisted tight and oozing bright blood on the desktop. Another droplet hit the pages of the Arcana, this one clear instead of red. With his good hand, he reached up and wiped at the corner of his eye with a furious swipe.

Goddamnit, no. Just no. Fucking no.

It couldn't be that these people were so blinded by this insane belief that they would surrender their daughters into the hands of their Church, willingly, to allow them to be ritually _poisoned_. To vouchsafe the safe passage of all.

It couldn't be that they'd gone so far out of their way to ensure they hadn't missed a single one…in case she was the dissenter who would ruin everything.

Ruin their return to paradise. Their home at the feet of the Gods.

Of all the sick…twisted...

Could that be what the Church was doing? Preparing for their exodus past the Ailmanka barrier and into the unknown beyond?

And if they could cast such a barrier; surely they could _tear one down_.

Biting back a curse, he put his head down on the desk, dizzy, and pushed his face into the crook of his bent arm. His chest and hand throbbed, the twinge in his skull spiking with each quick heatbeat, fighting back a decidedly violent response to all the stress and the shock and the feeling of absolute helplessness.

Fighting back tears. Clenching his teeth. Quaking with rage. He wanted to scream.

And that was just how Majic found him.


	15. The Hanged Man

**Chapter Fifteen: The Hanged Man**

"…Master?" He hadn't heard the door opening, but the kid's agitated voice was hard to miss. Even so, he didn't lift his head from the desk, and merely grunted in reply.

He supposed an overreaction at this point was inevitable. One hand was bleeding profusely, and although he kept it fisted tight and his elbow planted on the desktop, bright stripes of blood were running out of his palm and down the fitted leather sleeve of his garment. The shards of his former teacup were a bloody mess piled in the saucer, and with his head planted against his other arm, he was probably a rather convincing portrait of a man at the end of his rope.

A very short rope. But at the end of it, nonetheless.

"Master…you're bleeding!" Majic's hurried footsteps came across the wooden floor, and he felt the kid's hands pulling on his shoulder, forcing him up.

"Yeah, I know," he said woodenly, turning his head away so he couldn't see his face, which felt a little wet. Whether it was blood or sweat or what, he didn't know, but he'd just as soon avoid the questions. Opening his wounded hand to distract the kid's attention to it, he used his left to wipe his face before sitting completely up, taking in a slow breath to ease his rattled nerves.

"Your hand! What did you do?"

"Ah…my cup…broke…" Lame answer, but true. With the bloody shards of china, it was fairly obvious what had happened, he thought; but Majic was usually pretty unobservant. It was an ongoing problem.

"How?"

"Nevermind." Even his voice sounded a little rough. He cleared his throat, cupping his hand to watch the blood well up in the basin created by his palm. He saw no reason to explain why he'd broken it; hell, he didn't even know quite how he'd explain it even if he wanted to. "Don't suppose you could get me a bandage?"

"Of course!" Majic was already heading for the door, his footsteps echoing around the house while he clattered around looking for his pack. Obviously Stephanie was out, hopefully at the University, as Majic came straight back without calling her damn attention to the problem as he probably would have otherwise. The house was dark beyond the door. God knew what time it was.

Majic reappeared with their medical kit and a towel, which he handed over first while he sifted through the box. Orphen used it to sop up the mess on the desktop before daubing at his hand.

"Master. Should we see a doctor, maybe, while we're in town?"

He grimaced, moving the towel away and examining at the slices in his palm. "Shit. It's not _that_ bad."

"I don't mean for your hand. You're not well. I can tell, Master. You're not taking care of yourself at all. I know your wound hasn't healed well…"

With a deepening frown, he flicked an annoyed glare up at Majic before returning his attention to soaking up the blood.

"Christ, not you too," he sneered dismissively. "When did everyone I know turn into a flock of mother hens? It's fine."

"It's only because you have such an obvious disregard for your own health when you start focusing on helping someone you feel responsible for…"

"Watch it, kid."

"It's nothing to get upset about, Master…there's nothing wrong with being worried about her. _I'm_ worried about her! But since we left the Manor, when you talked to her mother, you've just seemed…I don't know... You don't seem quite yourself. I thought maybe it was something Mrs. Everlasting said to you…"

"Yeah, well, let's see…in recent memory I've been just about dragged through hell for my inability to keep one single goddamned promise to protect somebody; and her Mother is a troll who barely gives a shit what's happened to her and is more fucking concerned with—" He wrapped the towel quickly around his hand and reached into the open medical box for a gauze wrap, taking note just how limited his vocabulary became when he grew agitated, and feeling vaguely guilty for unleashing it on Majic. For once.

"Is that what she told you when she asked to speak with you in private?"

Orphen coughed, unwinding the towel from his hand and securing the bandage around his wrist before crossing it over his palm, between his thumb and index finger. He didn't want to talk about what she said, not after what he'd just read. His promise to bring her back safely was looking all the more like an outright lie, though he guessed Tistiny would have preferred that outcome to any other number of disgraces her daughter might be dragged through in the future should she still be alive.

"Sort of. She yelled at me. Said it was my fault. That kind of thing. What else is new." It was just exactly _what_ she had blamed on him that he wasn't going to specify. Her being taken captive had obviously been the least of the woman's concerns.

"Is that all?" Majic was righting the contents of the medical box and clasping it shut, and Orphen blinked at him.

"Mostly," he lied. "You'll have to forgive me if I've edited out the expletives…"

"Yours or hers?"

He almost cracked a distracted smile, imagining Tistiny Everlasting cursing a blue streak at him. "Whose do you think?"

"Yeah, I had the impression it went really well. Didn't you talk to her about Cleo at all?"

He almost flinched. God, why did it hurt to even hear her name right now? He wished everyone would just stop saying it for awhile, until he could pull himself together a little bit. His nerves were completely shot as it was. "Of course I did."

Majic settled on the floor beside the box, leaning back with his hands extended behind him. "I always wondered why she allowed Cleo to just…go like that. For no real reason, really. Even my Father wasn't very happy about my leaving…"

"I guess she _didn't_ really allow it…but you know her, she does what she wants no matter what you tell her. I guess that's the point."

The boy was quiet a minute, watching Orphen methodically winding the bandage over his palm and the back of his hand. Then his voice broke the silence again. "I heard…some of the end of the conversation…"

Securing the gauze, he extended his fingers then contracted them into a fist a few times before concocting a casual reply, despite how he mentally balked at this news. "Oh. So that's why you're asking."

"You were fighting with her. About Cleo."

He sighed shakily. It was pretty clear what part of their little chat had filtered down the hallway when Mariabella had opened the door. "Yeah, well. She wanted to know…uh. You know. How I felt. About. Her."

Ugh. He wished he could take that sentence back.

"I see. Any reason why?"

_Ugh_. Why did this have to be like pulling fucking teeth? He supposed he could just tell him to shut up and mind his own business, which would work about as well as it usually did, at least where Majic was concerned. Not that it would really accomplish anything.

"I guess…it had something to do with you know, the fight they had, when Cleo ran out. In Totokanta, that morning they came looking for her…"

"Oh, so they were fighting about you."

Goddamnit, he hated this. Every muscle in his body was tense. He was itching to tell him to just shut the fuck up. To get up and walk away from all of it. But really, there was nowhere to go.

"Apparently."

"Did Cleo tell you that?"

He inclined his head a little further down, staring down at his bandaged hand. His face felt hot. Why did he feel like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't? Why did he always feel like that when he thought about it all a little too much? And no, Cleo hadn't told him that. She'd gone very far out of her way not to, in fact.

"No."

"But Cleo was with you that morning."

He jerked back, finding Majic looking at him with that same, matter of fact innocence as was usual; as though he wasn't afraid to admit knowing that at all. Orphen was too shellshocked to be angry. "Ah…yeah. I…" he shook his head, closing his eyes. "_How_ did you know that?"

"I just figured it out eventually," Majic said, his head tilting in a half-shrug with his gaze averted to the side. "I didn't know it then."

"Oh…" He swallowed the knot in his throat.

_Just let it be. Don't say anything else._

"Cleo's mother asked you if you're in love with her, didn't she?"

Suddenly there was a stone where his stomach had been, and as much as he felt the raging impulse to argue it, he just nodded dumbly at the burning lamp on the desktop. He figured with that confirmation, it was pretty obvious just how that conversation with Tistiny Everlasting had played out, and maybe Majic would be merciful and just drop it.

But he didn't.

"You do love her, Master."

He didn't even wait for that to process. He planted his hands on his knees and he vaulted himself to his feet, the chair rattling on its castor wheels. "The _fuck_ would you know about it, Majic?"

He watched the kid flinch back, his arm coming up as a shield. As if he'd really hit him or something. "I'm sorry, Master…it's…"

"Listen, kid." He snarled, pointing in his little blonde fucking face; incensed. He stepped forward, leaning over him with as much menace as he had in him, which, at the moment, might not have been very much. "Just how the _fuck_ would you know…"

Majic grimaced up at him suddenly, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, hands hanging down. "Forgive me, Master, but I guess it's because I pay attention to things that you purposely ignore."

He blinked. The kid had a deathwish. It was about the most aggressive he'd ever seen Majic. If only he could channel that into his sorcery, maybe he wouldn't come up short quite as often. "And just what the hell does that mean?"

"Just what I said. I've never seen you more miserable than since she's been gone, which is saying something because you're pretty miserable most of the time anyway," Majic snapped, a little bitterly. "But now you lay awake all night. You haven't been eating almost at all. It's like you're not even you and…I don't know if it's because she's not around to fight with you anymore, but…I _hate_ it." Suddenly he crossed his arms, leaning forward over his crossed knees, all but glaring up at him. "And even before they took her, I knew."

"Yeah? How's that?" He spat.

"Well, to begin with, I saw you guys. At the Inn."

"…Oh." Shit.

There was a long pause, filled only with the lonely rustle of the rain turning to sleet as it hit the library window. Honestly, he didn't have a comment for that right away. He supposed in a way he shouldn't have felt so surprised. They hadn't been particularly discreet; he'd practically had her out in the hallway. Because at the time, he just couldn't wait a minute longer than he already had. It was almost funny that originally he'd thought that once his…curiosity…about her had been slaked, he'd be fine with it never happening again.

"Should I even ask?"

"I heard voices in the hallway. Thought it was you and Master Hartia finally coming back up, from the tavern. I started to open the door to let you know how late it was. But…"

Orphen waved his bandaged hand around in the air between them as though to clear smoke, turning his eyes to the blackness outside the window. "I get it, I get it." He raked a hand through his hair hard, as though he meant to rip it out like a handful of weeds; hooked his thumbs in his beltloops, staring irately at nothing. He knew _exactly_ what he'd seen, and he felt like kicking something. Like destroying something. "Fuck. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry?"

"Why?"

"_I don't know_!" He stared at the dark for awhile longer while Majic shifted around on the floor before turning back to his apprentice who suddenly didn't seem quite as unobservant as he'd always taken him for.

"And how does seeing that make you think that…" God, he couldn't even say it to Majic. He couldn't even repeat it. How was that for proof he just didn't have it in him? That he wasn't ready to love anyone? That he didn't even know _how_?

Majic just shrugged noncommittally. For being so talkative a minute before, he was being rather choice with his words now.

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, Majic, but you should know that sort of thing doesn't mean…"

Majic looked up at him with an almost insulted look. "If it _didn't_, why would you have waited so long?"

"I _didn't_…I wasn't _waiting_…it just…happened…" Suddenly he felt like throwing up. If this conversation kept up, he was pretty sure he was going to. Of course, one would need to have eaten something to do that.

"I don't know, Master. I guess I can't explain it to you after all," he veritably spat. "You act like I haven't been here, travelling with you two for the last, how long has it been…two years? I would have thought anybody could see it. I was just surprised that one of you actually, you know...acted on it. You both are so obstinate."

Orphen sat down abruptly in the desk chair, the wood and metal clacking under his sudden weight. It was quiet as hell all of a sudden, which he hated. It made him feel like Majic could hear all the weird things he was thinking about.

"Would it be so bad, Master?"

He practically jumped. "_What_?"

"…if you loved her."

He stared desolately at the book-lined wall opposite the desk in the half-light of the stained glass oil lamp, all at once feeling very tired. And a little defeated. "…h-how stupid would I have to be…to…" he scrubbed his good hand violently through his hair again, like some kind of nervous tick. "I can't…offer anyone anything...much less…"

"But Master, Cleo already _had_ everything. She made it clear didn't want that. She left all that, didn't she? And after I left the Tower…w-we didn't _have_ to go back for her."

Orphen closed his eyes, leaned back hopelessly in the chair. That was…certainly true. But not the point at all. "And why bring all this up now?"

"When would I have had the chance? Would you have let me? Especially if she was still here…"

He just dropped his head into his hands, probably incriminating himself completely, but he was so tired. Tired of talking about this. Tired of _feeling_ like this.

Minutes passed in silence with the tick of freezing rain on the windowglass, the occasional splutter and crackle of the burning lampwick.

"One time, when I was younger," Majic began quietly, watching the long shadows of his own limbs shudder in the trembling amber lamplight. "…a lot younger….I lost…this silver chain my mother had given to me. You know, before she died. I had been playing around with it or something; I don't know what I could have done with it."

The blonde boy shrugged a little, his shoulders hunching a bit as he stared at nothing, bringing his arms around his knees. "I just…lost it. Once I realized it was gone, I looked everywhere for it. Even places it couldn't possibly be, just to rule them out. But…the more I looked for it, the worst I felt about losing it. I didn't want to tell my Father that I'd lost it. I felt terrible that I'd just been…playing around with something like that; and had lost it like it was nothing, like it didn't mean anything. It wasn't until I was looking around for it that I realized how much that…stupid little chain meant to me. My mother had given it to me. It had belonged to her. It was one of the most precious things I owned, and I just messed around with it and lost it. When I finally told my father that I'd lost it, I was in tears. I knew he'd be disappointed in me, and he was. What he told me…was that sometimes…you don't realize how important something is to you, until you…don't have it anymore. He said that sometimes…we need to have something taken away from us so we can learn to appreciate the things we have while we have them."

Majic's voice died out but he didn't look up right away. He didn't rub it in. And as hackneyed as it all seemed, Orphen sat, feeling like someone had shot him in the chest all over again. He wanted to say "story of my life". But he didn't.

There were always things he wanted to say, but didn't. Usually it was for the best. Usually.

Orphen stood again, weaving a little, heading towards the double doors leading out of Stephanie's library. Majic finally looked up. "W-Where are you going?"

"Taking a walk." He said in his most matter of fact voice, and headed off before stopping again and turning, steadying himself against the doorframe. "Did you ever find it?"

The boy craned his head around, his shadow cast long on the floor behind him like a dark cape hanging from his shoulders. "Find it? Oh, the chain?"

"Yeah."

"…yes. My…" The boy forced a smile. "My father had it the whole time. He'd found it first and…he took it. To teach me a lesson about not making light and being thoughtless with things that supposed to be important to me."

Nodding, Orphen cleared his throat. The benefits of having a father. Whether it was a silver chain or Cleo Everlasting, no one had ever thought to teach him that lesson, much as a grown man should have been able to figure it out for himself. Childman had been a lot of things to him, but he hadn't been much of a father figure.

Not that he was really supposed to be, he guessed.

"Ah." Orphen said thickly. "Clever."

He turned and disappeared into the dark house, barely pausing to grab his cloak from the rack, and was out the back door and into the freezing rain before Majic could call after him with the obvious warning that the weather was definitely not appropriate for any sort of constitutional.

But it felt appropriate. The sleet bouncing off his shoulders like tiny glass crickets, the frigid wind knifing into him. Even for November, it was unseasonably cold. Especially for a place as far south as Alenhaten. But right now, cold felt right. Distracting and painful. Exactly the medicine he needed to chase away all the madness Majic had planted in his brain.

He hadn't told Majic what he'd read in the Arcana. Although he'd left it open there on the desk, and he could read it himself if he was so inclined. He didn't know why he hadn't just changed the subject, lied and told him he'd broken the cup in anger because of what he'd read. It would have been a useful segue. But whether he hadn't told him because he didn't want him to worry, or because he was selfish and just didn't want to say it out loud…he didn't know.

Maybe if he just kept those words on the pages of the Arcana…if he just didn't give them any power by saying them out loud…

Any sorcerer would be superstitious about it. Saying things out loud. God knew, he said a lot of things he didn't think about first; a lot of things he honestly didn't even mean. His tongue could run away without him sometimes, but he was always very careful not to give voice to things that he didn't want to happen. It was one of the first lessons a student of sorcery learned: words had power. They were the means. The conduit between a sorcerer's power and the physical manifestation of that energy is the incantation; the words that give that give the spark focus and form.

Saying something out loud gave it life. Even if it wasn't true for language with unspecific architecture and non-invocative means, he couldn't help feeling it held some merit. Agonizing over it now wasn't about to do him any good. It just cemented, whether it meant what he thought it did or not, that he needed to get into the Tower, and he needed to get there now. _Now_.

He sloshed over the back patio and into the treeline, swatting away wet pine branches that hung low in his path. He just…wanted to get out of the house for a few minutes. Away from Majic and the teacup shards and the lamplight and the book open on the desk. He wanted to think.

Predictably, he was fairly rattled about what had happened back there for the first time, in, well…a couple years, really. The bulk of that painful type of baseless confusion had indeed started during the trials. What had Shatsudeeji called it? A dissociative episode. Supposedly common for a young mind laboring to absorb the techniques they called Razor's Edge. She'd promised it would pass. And perhaps it would have. It had maybe even begun to fade when Azalea had her accident and his entire life had derailed like a speeding steam train.

The trials had sparked it. Azalea had fanned the flames. But he'd cemented that line between Krylancelo and Orphen in his mind entirely on his own. Intentionally.

Once Cleo had said that she imagined he'd been a horrible child, but the truth was, he hadn't been. The monster he was now, he'd done that to himself. Whether it was to survive or whatever, he couldn't make excuses for it. It was what it was. But in fact, it was nothing short of miraculous that he'd lived as long as he had so far.

Yes, the world's most worthless miracle.

On the streets, that was when he'd had to fight those feelings of confusion the hardest. When he'd suddenly look around an alley and wonder what in God's name he was doing there. All too often there would be a body at his feet, and he didn't know who to blame for it. Krylancelo, or someone called Orphen. Someone he had made up in his mind, someone who was hard and didn't give a damn about anything. He'd distanced himself from what he was doing so intently, that there came times that it was hard to remember that those two were the same person; that one was just an alias, a mask to hide behind; and it was really still he who was living on the streets, murdering for money, constantly half-starved to death and insane with fear that he'd die before he ever even had a _chance_ to save Azalea. Sometimes he had to utterly force himself to remember that as much as sometimes it felt like it, everything hadn't been a terrible fever dream, he'd really left the Tower. Azalea was really gone. He'd really left his friends, his "family" had really turned a blind eye to all of it. And he was really all alone, fighting like the devil just to stay alive.

But it had never sat quite right with Krylancelo that he had to rely on Orphen to survive.

Such were the idealistic dreams of a fifteen year old boy who thought he knew enough to take on the world's injustice all on his own. He was always jumping into things before he thought them through. That was the _real_ story of his life.

Since those days, those dirty, derelict days of his life that he'd love to completely erase from his mind were it only possible, he'd absolutely loathed the sensation of being hungry. He got extremely touchy whenever that feeling edged into his consciousness, and was inconsolable until it went away. Because being hungry, it inexorably reminded him of being desperately afraid for his life in those days when he had no means of supporting himself. Of passing trash cans and having only his misplaced sense of pride to thank for his not digging through them like a stray dog. Of the hard earned lessons he taught himself, to look on the deaths of others as necessary for the sustaining of his own. It brought back vivid memories of a horrible life he'd lived, one way or another, until he'd arrived in Totokanta and felt the sword there; felt it lingering in the materials of the buildings it had passed through; felt it _calling_ him from inside the mansion on the edge of the city. So he'd taken root there. He'd made a deal with those Masmaturian Polkano brothers, in exchange he'd take some of the small fortune they owed off their note. A fair exchange was all he was interested in, he told them.

How ironic, that the sword had come to belong to _her_. Of all people. Of all _bloody_ people for that sword to lead him to.

In a way, he thought perhaps that was one of the reasons the little blonde firebrand set him off the way she did. As much as he argued with her about it, he didn't hold it against her that she'd been handed everything in her life on a silver platter and still didn't want it. He couldn't compare their lives. He'd _chosen_ to leave the Tower. He'd done it to himself. And only recently he came to see what life might be like on her end; having a life shoved at you like it was a gift: a life you desperately didn't want. He'd told her for years she could never appreciate what it felt like to have nothing.

But despite that, what set him off was the ways she could make him feel simply by being _around_. She gave him that same sort of restless, uncomfortable feeling that he detested, like he was hungry all the time. But now that she was gone, somehow, it was even worse. It was the same as starving to death, the way he felt. Helpless. Frustrated. Miserable. He didn't understand it, but it drove him insane.

He supposed it wasn't unreasonable to miss her. After all, she'd been around him almost constantly for going on two years. Despite what he'd initially thought of her; she had eventually proved to have her own worthwhile skills as a member of their…team, so to speak. She wasn't bad with that sword. Her dragon cub, loathe as he was to admit it, had come in handy once or twice. She'd been keeping decent track of the financial ledger lately. And she'd stuck with him, well, for just about no good reason at all. God knew, he hadn't given her much motivation or incentive to do so, and yet, without her goading him onward, distracting him out of his bouts of black pessimism, there was a world of things he might never have accomplished. As hard as he'd fought against it, she really had become his partner. He'd been resisting her with a violent fury that bubbled in him with every goddamn beautiful little giggle and spastic overreaction and fiery challenge she shot at him, not just at how those things made him feel; but how they'd made him feel about _her_.

Somehow it constantly gave him a dirty, ashamed feeling: like he was doing something so intensely wrong by feeling that way about her, about _anyone_, that it just pissed him off even more; and without fail, he always took it out on her. It served its purpose. Fighting with her took the focus off those feelings, and it was just safer when she was angry at him. She was a lot less likely to try to touch him or joke about things or laugh or smile when she wanted him to die. It had worked for awhile, though it had grown gradually less and less effective; and whether it was because she'd grown used to his picking fights with her or that she just had stopped reacting in the way he wanted…he'd eventually buckled under the weight of the temptation she posed to him.

The problem was that once he'd finally given in, once they'd made love that night in Totokanta; her skin still damp from the rain, the thunder outside, the taste of salt on her skin, that manic union…he'd only wanted more of her. He'd craved her like air, like water, like an opium addict shaking for a fix. He needed her. His life was inundated by a white-knuckled desire to be close to her; like a man drowning and desperately praying for air.

And he'd tried so hard not to feel _anything_. But all along, once he'd noticed those stifling, unwelcome emotions, even as he tried to deny them, he couldn't go back to the time before he knew.

He supposed maybe he should have seen that episode coming, the ever raging battle between his two selves leaving him momentarily lost between those two lives. He should have been more careful as soon as he'd started with the inexplicable desire to hear her say his name. His real name. He should have known he was teetering on a precarious edge when he'd shocked himself by asking her, in the heat of passion, to say it; when the most bizarre sense of jealousy had raged through him to hear her gasping for _Orphen_ when it was _Krylancelo_ who was making her feel that way…

It was a wonder he hadn't slipped right then. It must have been her being there with him that saved him that time. But even thinking of it now, he felt it writhing under the surface. The most awkward feeling of protectiveness. How can you be jealous of yourself?

Tromping through the dark, he brought his freezing, bare hand to his head. _Just_ s_top it._

He'd been off his guard that night, perhaps it was because he'd had a little to drink. He'd said things, done things he normally wouldn't have. He'd been practically on the verge of telling her she was beautiful when, as it happened, they'd begun to fight. He'd gotten defensive. And she told him she loved him.

Sort of. Just about. And he'd never felt such a fucked up tangle of resentment and happiness in his life.

Those twisted emotions had almost strangled him on the day she'd been abducted. In those final desperate moments with that dagger against her throat and the rifles aimed at him, he'd felt an alarming hysteria flood his mind. Everything else went away, and the only thing that mattered to him in the world was _her_. Saving _her_. Despite that he'd sworn his whole life that no one would ever, could ever come before Azalea. In that single second, once again, he betrayed his precious _sister_; betrayed himself.

And once that Pandora's Box had been opened, he'd been completely unable to stuff those feelings back into the dark where he wanted them. He'd never felt so out of control of his own thoughts in his life; once the gravity of it had taken hold of him, like a plunging fall off a cliff, nothing he did could prevent or slow down the inevitable plummet deeper into this new type of misery.

If that was attachment, the usual mechanics of his obsessive tendencies, or just inertia, he didn't know. He _did_ know he felt like he was losing his mind.

Once someone had told him that the noblest and most pitiable thing in the world is to want love. But wanting it…and feeling it were very different.

And he just…he wasn't ready to love anybody. Didn't even know how. It was easy to love Azalea. It was just a reflex, a second nature. Like admiring something lovely and far away, like the sky or a sunrise, something that didn't love you the same way you did it, but you never expected it to. Loving Azalea was different. Entirely different.

He was still walking, having left the house in the thick darkness behind him, trudging through wet loam and pushing through leaves, like he was running from an animal. What was he running from? Why was he doing this at all? Orphen slowed, squinting around in the dark. He'd barely noticed the hailstones were no longer striking his cloak; and were replaced by something quieter: the cold, white, ash-like float of snowfall. It clung to leaves and branches, but the ground was too wet for it to collect. It just added to the slush gathering on the mulch of dead, soaked leaves and bark. He kicked at it absently, leaning back against a small redwood, pulling his hood back and welcoming the sting of the arctic air. The feather-like touch of snow.

Maybe he was just afraid of what was going to happen if he wasn't ready to love someone…but did anyway. Just like with anything, he was going to fuck it up. Or would have… Now he might not even have the chance to fuck it up any worse than he already had. He might not even have a chance to see her again.

Not alive anyway. He didn't have to wonder just how he would feel to see her dead. It would feel like having his heart ripped out. Actually, it felt like that just thinking about it. Why?

Okay, okay. Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Because he loved her. Okay? He _loved_ her.

It wasn't that big a deal. Nothing to…get worked up about.

Oh, godfuckingdamnit, he did. He fucking loved her.

He slid down the tree he was leaning back on, unclenching his fists and staring down at his hands in a daze. Blood was seeping through the white bandage that wrapped his sliced palm, his chest tight and cramped and hating the cold air he was pulling into his injured lung. He was out of breath. His head was spinning. He felt dizzy. There was a burning sensation in his throat. He let his head fall back hard against the tree, his skull striking the wood and making his vision swim for a moment before the world came back into focus: the strange shadows of snowflakes falling directly down at him from the charcoal sky while something else, burning and wet, slid from the corner of his eye and down the side of his neck.

How pathetic.

He'd expected that admission to feel like something. A gust of relief or a tingling epiphany; but instead, he just felt empty. Very calm, and very empty. The way the eye of a hurricane must feel.

Oh, he'd known it. He just hadn't _known_ he'd known. And what he felt was nothing pitiable, and nothing noble.

He wasn't sure if that meant anything.


	16. The Emperor

**Chapter Sixteen: The Emperor**

On the fifth night, she'd figured out what the smell was.

That dreadful certainty could bring only a single comfort: that she'd heeded the note, the one that had been stealthily placed onto her tray of food that first evening. Folded demurely between the tin mug and the steaming bowl of soup that, after a long, stressful day of starvation, had smelled almost hypnotic; it had caught her eye. Too stiff to be a napkin. Obviously torn from a larger parchment.

And she'd been afraid to touch it. Terrified. What dreadful confirmation of death or threat of impending torture would it reveal? She almost felt it was better not to know.

When she'd pulled it off, unfurled it and held it to the lamplight in stiff, half-frozen fingers, the handwriting had spelled a single sentence. Scrawled quickly in quill pen, backslanted, loopy cursive that just about had to belong to Azalea Kettoshi, whom, despite her expectations, she had not seen since her sudden appearance shortly after her arrival.

The note said: "_Don't eat anything_."

This delivered to a ravenous, frightened girl who hadn't eaten for more than a day, on a tray of steaming food. She had to wonder just what sort of sick test this was, and had predictably grown angry. If she'd had the energy, or someone to direct her frustration at, she would have left somebody _have it_.

But of course, she'd had neither.

She'd certainly weighed her options, but fear had intervened, and she'd allowed the food to sit there, the steam subsiding until it had grown stone cold. Eventually, the hinged slat in the bottom of the door pulled open, and the tray was taken away. She hadn't touched a bite, despite the loud, whining protests of her stomach.

Every day since, she'd dreaded the appearance of the tray. Its arrival signified the passing of another day; another day closer to the unknown culmination of her imprisonment. Another day of uncertainty, of cold stone floors and frigid drafts. Another day in her same sweater and jeans from days before. Another day of painful starvation.

Her will drained just that little bit every night, smelling whatever sort of nourishment was provided. It had become a twisted routine where she would shuffle over to the tray to eye it mournfully, tempting herself with thoughts that at least the bread had to be safe. Or the water. But…

Only deadly apprehension reinforced her resolve. And on the fourth night, beyond the aroma of stew and strong, dark, bitter-smelling tea, there was a strange, underlying stench. Septic almost. A twist to the nostril that made it just the least bit inappretizing; famished as she'd become.

What she thought was that it was something in the food. That it was the reason she'd been warned not to eat what they gave her. Eventually, the hinged bottom of the door clacked open as was now usual. The tray was taken away.

The rancid scent remained.

It lingered all night, all the next day, and only grew more pungent until it became horrifyingly clear what the smell was.

The sick-sweet marigold smell of something beginning to putrefy. Something _dead_.

_Don't eat anything._

Oh, god. It wasn't that she hadn't understood what the note had been implying. It was just that dreadful confirmation of what it had been warning her; and that if she hadn't listened…

She hadn't slept that night. Instead, she'd crouched in the corner of the room, listening to doors down the corridor open and close; the subterranean echo of sound across empty dark distances; the wooden cadence of heavy, scraping footsteps. Between the smell and the muffled voices of the men shuffling around, carrying heavy burdens between them out of each room, it hadn't taken a genius to discern what was happening. They were carrying out the bodies of other girls.

Other girls who had been eating the soup, drinking the water. Girls who hadn't been warned not to do so.

Oh, God.

And if Cleo'd been hungry; she lost anything resembling an appetite. She stared vacantly at the dark shapes that occupied the room while hugging her knees, rocking slightly, huddled in her stiff wool blanket; missing the warmth of breath and sunlight. Missing voices and laughter and rain. Reiki's soft fur. Focusing on memories that fluttered around in her brain like moths around a candle, random and frantic, anything at all to distance herself from the horror creeping down the hallway.

Obviously, they must have already figured out that she wasn't eating the food. Whether they knew she'd been warned or not didn't really matter. And if they really wanted her dead, it was only a matter of time until they decided on another way. If it would be by an equally furtive means, or if they'd charge in with rifles, it was impossible to know.

Now it was a race. Would they kill her, or would they just let her starve to death? Either way, the finish line was the same. And unless someone came kicking in her door to save her, she had very few options available to her. No matter what Azalea had told her, she was no mage. She'd come to terms with that fact awhile ago. Orphen had told her himself, that no matter how much as she'd wanted to learn sorcery and how hard she promised she'd work at it, she just didn't have the genes for it. She hadn't been born with the spark that was required, and no matter how much she harassed him, all he could teach her was that she needed to learn how to deal with disappointment.

Despite that, she'd listened avidly to each and every one of Majic's lessons when she had any opportunity at all. She knew the invocations and wording to every spell in Orphen's usual arsenal and their effects. Even the types of energies they drew from and how they were related to others. She knew the different categories of magic:

Relocative.

Restorative.

Combatitive.

And defensive.

She couldn't _help_ but listen. When he started teaching, his abrasive nature dwindled away like a clearing of morning fog, and for a few minutes she could see _him_. When he spoke like that, there was something in him, something quietly brilliant but somehow a little unsettling; the usual twisted, inexplicable dichotomy that made her ache for him. His voice could be broken glass or smoke; his touch like claws or feathers. Sometimes she almost could imagine there really was two of him. She just couldn't tell who was who, or which she loved more.

Oh, she missed him. She missed Majic. She missed everything.

He wouldn't have lied, not about _that_. He may not have wanted to teach her, but regardless she'd stuck around anyway. If he'd lied about her possible capabilities just to get rid of her, he would have come clean about it by now. And in any case, there hadn't been a single relative of hers that had studied sorcery. She'd never had one of those telltale accidents where magic was accidentally cast by children, revealing their latent potential. One heard those stories in books all the time. Even Majic had had that happen to him. If that wasn't a dead giveaway, she didn't know what was.

No matter what Azalea said. About anything. And Cleo wouldn't pile all her hope into something so…completely unlikely.

The second note that arrived had only raised her ire. Slid onto her food tray on the sixth day, again, all it had said was one sentence.

"_I invite thee, gate of origin."_

It did no good. She already knew the _spell_. It was just exactly how she expected her to use it that she no clue about. It wasn't as though Azalea was stupid, but she'd clearly told her she'd had no training whatsoever, despite the all that time she'd spent listening to Orphen instructing Majic. Without training, having inherited the power of sorcery was useless. Knowing the words to a spell was useless. If that was all it took, hell, she'd be the best sorceress the Tower had ever seen…

But of all spells, she certainly already knew that one. How could she ever forget it? It echoed through her intellect at night, in a cutting voice curled with a northern accent, whispered hot against her throat to open the locked door he trapped her against. Even in the flash of those recollections it reminded her of a swelling anticipation, a stomach knotting cocktail of anxiety and excitement of what he would do to her when that door opened.

He hadn't disappointed her. But what she'd been calling "making love" in her head wasn't really what he was doing, and she'd known it. The fact was that he'd just been fucking her. Love had nothing to do with it. But some tenacious, idealistic, romance-novel, ridiculous little-girl part of her had hated how much she didn't care enough about that to refuse him. That wide eyed cherub part of her had failed to quietly allow the guilty rapture of just letting it happen; she'd tortured herself every moment of it, calling herself a whore just like her mother had, even as she'd cried out his name.

Well, that part of her…it was gone now. A child painfully drowned in those moments forever frozen, forever doomed to continue happening inside her head. The end of her hopeful innocence. The end of what we wish could fast forever.

All her life, Cleo Everlasting had never just been happy with what she had. She was always wanting more, something different, something better or more exciting. Orphen made it known that he hated that about her, and she couldn't blame him; she hated it about herself. She didn't know how to enjoy anything. She only figured how it could have been better, how she could have expected more from it.

Nothing could ever make her happy.

He was right about her. He'd always been right. And it wasn't that she hadn't known. Just that she'd defended herself blindly despite that she had no real justification for the selfish processes of her brain; the tangle of expectations and neuroses she could only blame on her Mother. Orphen's constant insults and her stubborn pride had only exacerbated the situation. But in the end, everything she'd done as part of the 'team' had been laced so thick with self-interest that to think of it now made her insides twist in shame.

Everything she'd done…was because she loved him. God knew why, but she loved him, and she would have done anything if it meant that he'd feel even a shadow of that in return. But it was ugly. Not beautiful and selfless, the way everything she'd ever read in her life said love should have been. It was trivial and wanting. Really, it didn't seem like there was anything more selfish than love; at least the kind she felt for Orphen. Ugly, imperfect and ultimately self-seeking as it really was, it was still love. Just maybe not as beautiful and ideal as she wanted it to be. What else could she have expected from herself? She was nothing if not a mutinous, shallow and frivolous child.

She'd even tried to refuse the jewel of Gigabrious when Hartia had all but dropped it into her hands; declined to give it to Orphen for fear of what would happen when used in tandem with the other relics. More than one source expected he would die. Despite that it was everything he wanted…she'd refused it. At the time she'd thought she was protecting him.

But she wasn't. It was no righteous desire to save him from the wrong choice, a choice he'd regret. It was a selfish wish to save him for herself, because she didn't want him to die. What he wanted, what he needed…those weren't part of her concerns. But if he'd wanted to die for it, it should have been his choice. He'd gone through hell, subjected himself to suffering he wouldn't discuss and she could only imagine. It was his choice if he would give his life for it. Not hers.

In the end, she'd felt guilty. But she'd never apologized for it. It hadn't even occurred to her.

And her mother…she'd been planning her high-society perch since Cleo was a child, building a golden pathway to a future in a gilded birdcage that she didn't want; a future that she'd spent a good deal of her life throwing back in her face as much as she was able. But was it her mother was who was selfish for wanting steadfast security for her daughters, or if she was worse for intentionally and constantly running from it…well. As usual, nothing was ever good enough. To her, everything had always been a radical contrast, easily discernable as good or bad, everything or nothing, black or white. But sitting here in the death-stinking dark, life was just a thousand shades of gray.

It was hard to swallow. She didn't know why she was here, not really. What the Church wanted to do with her, she didn't know the specifics, but she'd known they'd intended her to be part of it. But where she was now…maybe she deserved this.

Here she was, living proof that the future you have one moment won't be the same one you have the next. By her own hands, her own rebellions and deeds. Her own selfish parade of Princess Cleo's hollow ideals.

And no matter what, Princess Cleo or not, no one was going to pluck her up out of this dungeon and pat her on the head. Her whole life, she'd relied on others to save her when she wandered into a dark corner, to shield her; relied on the strengths of others to hold her up when she felt the gravity of the world bearing down on her.

But no one was going to come bail her out this time. No one could. Over the last couple days, that had become all too clear.

A week locked in the dark gave a person a lot of time to think.

Wrapped in her wool blanket, Cleo wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. They were red, raw from wiping her tears over and over, her lips dry and cracking every time she moved them too much. She was starving. She was thirsty. She was terrified. And if it was worse to think of trying to escape and being caught, or to sit and wait for her eventual fate, she couldn't quite decide.

Slowly, with both hands, she reached out toward the dark wood of the locked door and laid her palms on the wood, bringing her face close enough that she felt her breath on her cold fingers. She swallowed tentatively, inexplicably nervous. No matter how much she'd listened to him explain to Majic, she didn't know how to cast a spell. Where to focus, what to concentrate on, if there was a special way to stress certain words…she had no idea.

It seemed there were so many things that she just didn't know. Maybe she'd never really known anything.

She _did_ know there was really no reason to bother with this.

But it was either this…starve to death…or wait for them to kill her.

Cleo Everlasting was a lot of things. But she wasn't a pushover. Even if she might have deserved it, she wasn't going to let _them_ kill her. Not without a fight, at least. She'd at least make her Father proud for that; as untouchably far away as he was.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of her hands spread on the door and her breath puffing out like pale smoke in the window of her dim vision, and instead imagined a warm, gloved hand closing over hers, _teaching_ _her_ this time, if only in her own imagination.

"_When you incant, Majic, you're directing the energy in your body to project in a certain way. Think of it like being angry and wanting to __**show**__ someone that you're angry. How would you do that?" He was leaning against a fencepost, and from her vantage point a few yards away, comfortably resting in a cradle of stomped down lemongrass, she could see him perfectly, even as his image was flattening down into a silhouette in the descending summer twilight._

"_Uh…I guess I'd…yell?" Majic shuffled around audibly. It was breezy, the grass bending low around her with an almost subliminal hiss, like an audible water mirage of a ghost ocean. The sun was swiftly going down, outlining their profiles bright against the gold July sunset while the opposite horizon was already sprayed with pale stars. Further off in the mountain, crickets were singing._

"_Alright. So how do you yell?"_

"_Ah…" More shuffling. Poor Majic wasn't very good at this part of things. _

"_Don't you direct your anger into the tone of your voice to sound angry?" Something at which Orphen was decidedly gifted. In fact, he was starting to sound annoyed already. Sometimes she just didn't know how Majic learned anything, irresolute as he was. With Orphen's obscure method of describing things, he certainly didn't make comprehension a simple task on the boy._

"_Well, yeah…"_

"_Think of it like that. Like a tone of voice, but instead of anger, you're projecting a desire for something more specific; and instead of the emotion in your body that fuels a tone of voice, you're using the underlying current of energy. If you're able to properly draw on that, you won't have that happen to you again. You're misdirecting your energy."_

"_More vitality, Majic!" she called, leaning up on her elbows. She'd meant it as motivation, but Orphen chucked a stone in her direction. It whizzed far over her head, landing in the field a few feet behind her with a solid thump._

"_Hm, did you hear something?" he sneered, stopping to pluck up another rock from the gravel sideroad._

_Still she shouted over to him. "Jerk! Wouldn't you feel bad if you hadn't __**missed me**__ by a mile? What a crappy throw!"_

"_Want to find out? Should I give that another shot?" He was tossing the stone up in the air and catching it. "Shut up and let him focus. Majic, concentrate on the objective you're trying to achieve, and use that like an emotion to fuel your voice. Are you even listening?"_

With her eyes closed in the cold dungeon cell, a million miles away from that cricket song, star studded July evening, Cleo scowled, breathed in, set her jaw, and said with the steadiest, quietest voice she could: "I invite thee…gate of origin."

She waited, breath held in her chest with a swelling hope.

With stiff, cold fingers, she reached up to the knob and grasped it, waiting again before twisting her wrist vaguely to the right.

The door…was still locked.

Slowly she dropped her hand back to the wood, numb and swallowing a dry lump in her throat. It wasn't as though she'd really expected any different. Inclining her head, she rested her forehead on her spread hands, still anchored against the door, the pale tangle of her long hair falling forward over her shoulders and obscuring them from her view.

Really. She hadn't expected anything. There was no reason to feel disappointed. Or discouraged. Or _doomed_.

Despite herself, a sob was rising in her chest again; tears already on their way down her face.

She sniffed weakly, leaning more heavily on her hands with her arms going slack, her whole body bowing forward like a falling tree, and whispering tearfully to someone who couldn't hear her. Someone, for all she knew, who may have been just as untouchably far away by now as her Father. Again, because of the twisted values of the Kimurak Church and its pious belief that murder was something that was to be viewed objectively; that finding it acceptable depended utterly on who was doing the killing and who was getting killed.

Her shoulders drew up on a long breath as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto that vivid image of him in her mind a few moments more before it faded and left her miserably and hopelessly alone once again.

"You liar…" she warbled. "You missed me on _purpose_…"

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

There was the nagging sensation that this has been just a little too easy. Stephanie had said it herself: leave it to him to look at good fortune as a bad omen.

He'd half expected her to tell him the stone had gone missing, been hijacked, or she'd been attacked on her way returning from the University, but…no. She'd dropped the little velvet purse into his hand with an almost smug smile, reminding him that she expected him to return it when he was through with it.

When he'd peeked inside, the stone had been less impressive than he'd imagined. It was a jagged, gleaming black rock, with smooth sides and sharp edges, like any chunk of volcanic glass he'd ever seen as a child, but far heavier than it should have been for something its size; about the same as a small apple, and with a distinct stomach-twisting enchantment held inside it that even a common man couldn't deny was there.

Even now, folded up in the drawstring purse and zippered safely in his pocket, he could feel that odd magic giving him just the slightest bit of vertigo as he walked, his boots crunching through the slowly accumulating snowfall as they neared the outskirts of the only city he'd ever really called home. Cobbled roads neatly rooted over the hills, lined with brown and white tudor buildings with turrets and windmills. To the west, a white-capped mountain range; to the east, the artificial lake and pine forest, and at the center, jutting out over the structures of the city, a tower of whitewashed chalkstones standing bright against the dove gray sky; the tip of the fortress where every vague memory of his childhood and adolescence was set, like a permanent backdrop to an ever-changing theatrical tragedy: the Tower of Kiba.

The city had been completely razed three times in the last two-hundred years, though only two of the disasters had actually been recorded. That was what they taught at the Tower; that Taflem could never truly be destroyed so long as its people lived to resurrect it.

But looking at the city now, it looked abandoned, derelict. Even the snow hadn't reached through the barrier, leaving the city standing in a vast disc of dark soil and bare trees, ringed by white on all sides. A dark bruise on a frosted, pristine landscape.

Looking down on it as they crested the hill, Orphen's adrenaline was already soaring. Maybe it was just the strange enchantment on the stone putting him on edge, but anticipating an attack didn't seem foolish at this point, and the closer they drew to the barrier, the more plausible it became.

They'd translocated to the southern outskirts of the city earlier in the morning, and opted to travel the rest of the way on foot due to the plausibility that if they'd appeared any closer, they could have arrived in the presence of Kimurak scouts monitoring the perimeter. Avoiding the inevitable scuffle for as long as was possible, ideally until after they'd passed the barrier, was the main objective. Orphen, therefore, upon arrival had cursed the discovery that the ground was frosted over with fresh snow. Not enough to make travel difficult, just enough to severely compromise the element of stealth.

So much for sneaking in. They might as well have been thundering in on horseback. Hartia would be complaining about that next, no doubt.

The three of them crunched as softly as was possible, towards the dark circle of the city, all restlessly silent and prepared, as much as one was ever prepared, for the worst.

A few yards from the edge of the barrier, the images beyond distorted in a mind bending mirage, Majic finally spoke up as he watched his Master removing Stephanie's stone from the little blue purse it had been carried in.

"…Master?"

Orphen looked up sharply, dark shadows hanging under his eyes. He'd barely spoken to him since the night before, and Majic could only imagine he deserved it. In retrospect, he felt he'd been almost cruel to force Orphen into that very revealing conversation, but for his own sanity, he hadn't been able to sit idly by and watch him torture himself over something he wouldn't even _admit_. Even for someone as patient as Majic Lin, it was completely exasperating. And, stubborn to the end, his Master had been more content to trudge outside into the falling snow to evade agreeing with his assessment of the situation. Better avoidance than admission. It was all very typical, really. The troubling part was that he hadn't come back to the house for almost an hour. The boy couldn't imagine what he'd had been up to all that time out in the bitter cold and sleet, or what he'd been thinking about.

If Orphen caught pneumonia, he would blame himself. When he'd mentioned this to Hartia for some support, he'd just assured the boy he'd been apprenticed to his self-deprecating friend just a little too long, and was beginning to adopt some of his least agreeable personality flaws. Hartia warned him to be more careful; Majic surmised he had little choice in the matter.

When he simply looked at him in place of a reply, the boy went on, tugging his cloak up around his neck a little tighter. "Do you think they'll be able to tell that someone's breached their barrier?"

"Not a clue," he returned tonelessly. "I already told you to be ready to fight, kid."

Majic almost winced. He wasn't using his name. He'd heard him do this to Cleo before, when she crossed the line with him a little too far. "I…I am ready. I was just wondering…"

"I don't think any alarms are going to start going off, but I imagine they've got monks patrolling, and we're going to run into somebody sooner or later. Probably sooner, sounding like a bunch of goddamn cows tromping through this _fucking_ snow." He turned his attention back to the stone, staring down at it as though it required activation. Majic didn't know if it did.

Hartia's arms were folded under his evergreen cloak, his shoulders and copper hair dusted white. He shifted around in the piled frost, amusedly listening to the tight creak it made under his boots as he intentionally crunched loudly around in a little circle.

Orphen shot him a sneer while he was tugging off his glove, "Seriously?"

The sardonic ginger cracked a smile. "What the _hell_ are you so uptight about, Krylancelo? Aren't you always the one saying that relaxation is key to concentration? If they're going to come at us, get focused, man. Screw trying to sneak in if it's a waste anyway."

Orphen murmured insults under his breath, turning towards the barrier, gripping Stephanie's Tenjin rock in his good hand.

"You have no sense of humor left in your entire body, do you?"

"Are you going to follow me or not, goddamnit?" He spat, over his shoulder. "I don't know how tight a radius this thing has but if you're left out here I'm _not_ turning around for you."

"You'd sacrifice a teammate on principle? That's pretty ruthless…"

"There's no room for friendship in battle, Hartia." He was walking into the barrier now, Majic close behind.

Hartia grudgingly followed, freeing his arms from his cloak. "I don't think there's room for friendship in your definition of _friendsh--_"

His words cut off as they passed through the barricade, nearly stumbling at the stomach churning sensation it conjured. Orphen had turned back to him with a mordant smirk; Majic looked a little green.

"Wuh," he gulped, breathing deep to settle his sudden bubbling nausea with a pale countenance that said it all. Hartia closed his eyes briefly to get his bearing, seemingly willing the protesting contents of his stomach to quiet while Orphen was staring down at the stone in his open palm once more.

"What's wrong now? Is it doing something?"

"No," he said woodenly. "I just…I don't know…I guess it just feels like this should have been…"

"What, you wanted the answer to be harder? _Leave_ it to you…"

"It's not that I _wanted_ it to…just…I don't know. Forget it. Let's go." Orphen snapped his hand shut around the stone, seeming to have quickly shaken the sick feeling that Hartia and Majic were still floundering through, and headed quickly down the rise and into the deserted backstreets of Taflem.

They hugged close to buildings, moving toward the center of the city. After the trek through the snow beyond the barrier, every footstep seemed phantom-silent in comparison, and they'd reached the outer gate of the Tower fortifications with relative ease, where Orphen stopped and leaned back against the stone wall with an impatient expression.

"Why are you stopping?" Hartia looked up along the fort wall, squinting up "There's no additional barrier…at least, nothing that hasn't always been here…"

"I know…"

"Well?"

"I thought there _would_ be…"

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Guess so…" Orphen glanced over, crouching down against the wall to loosen the long, thin blade strapped along his thigh, which made his young apprentice a little uneasy.

Majic may have studied long enough to be able to magically stand his ground…but if he were to be attacked at close range with a weapon, he knew little about what he could do to defend himself. On the few occasions he could recall his Master using the weapon, he'd more than proved his competence with it. He'd been trained in other areas other than sorcery; that much was obvious. Even the way he conducted himself in a fight using nothing but magic, it wasn't even comparable to the way other magicians did. With his proficiency in battle, it was no wonder the Tower continued to plea for his return despite how he'd campaigned against them for years. He'd said as much to Hartia before, and he'd agreed, adding that it was among other reasons that the Tower would be after him until either it crumbled or he died.

After this long learning from him, the boy knew better than to ask about any of it, or even bring it up. It would all just be more of the same topic dodging as always. At this point it was best just to keep his mouth shut.

Orphen drew the blade finally and went about replacing it on his belt. "What do you think the chances are of 'porting in undetected?"

"Pretty slim, I'd say. What are you, a ninja now? Since when have you been so concerned about sneaking around?"

"And what are you, a retard? I don't know who they've got in there…but someone cast that barrier…I don't want to throw myself into anything without at least a little forewarning. Not everyone is stupid enough to go crashing in on a bull wearing a giant fucking red bow tie…"

"Psht, you traitor," Hartia hissed, his back against the wall, craning his neck back to look at the sky. "You only wished you were as cool as Black Tiger—"

"Yeah, when I was _ten_…"

"Master…when we went in before, we could only get in because the wall had been crumbled…"

"I remember."

Hartia nodded, "Breaking into the Tower without sorcery honestly shouldn't be possible. It's the _Tower_, the architecture alone doesn't allow it. I don't see an alternative. No one can teleport directly into or out of the actual structure from the outside because of the wards…and even from the inside there are limited levels of matter transmission."

Majic perked up at that, remembering his few weeks studying under Hartia at the Tower; a decidedly different experience than being apprenticed to Orphen, but not exactly preferable. "It's so the students can't just come and go as they please as soon as they learn how, isn't it?"

"Among other things," Hartia said. "Obviously, in situations just like these, anything else would completely compromise security. Not all men who call themselves sorcerers are automatically welcome at the Tower. The fact that the only outer way-point available inside the walls is the center courtyard, which is always guarded. Now, though, I can only guess at what might be there."

"Guards of a different variety, no doubt," Orphen griped.

"D'you think they know it's a landing point? I mean, would they know to watch it?" Majic rose his eyesbrows hopefully, but Orphen turned a sour look up at him.

"I'm sure Tish has let them in on a few more details than would have been convenient," he said, then stood up abruptly, still looking up the chalkstone wall, bending his neck hard to one side until it made an audible pop, then repeating the motion on the other side. He turned to the others, one side of his mouth turned up in a dismal half-smirk; the look a man might have facing a full firing squad dressed as clowns.

"Well _fuck_. Good pep talk…let's do this thing," he said grimly, grabbing hold on Majic's upper arm before he could even blink at him for clarification. "I dance in thee, mansion of heaven."

Majic's brain spun like a top; a sharp, cold fire ripping through his extremities like blood rushing back to a constricted limb for the split second it took to travel before he'd materialized again. Orphen's hand released his arm with a forceful jerk as though he were already in motion, but the boy took a few seconds more to gather himself and focus on the new surroundings; and by that time, Hartia had already pulled him to the ground.

They'd appeared the only place they could, in the center of the Tower's inner cloister, surrounded by lichen-kissed stone spires that looked like arcane pieces of a giant chessboard. Hartia and he were crouched on the ground, surrounded by eight Kimurak Monks in charcoal gray robes and high collars, pointing the stout barrels of their bayonetted rifles down, level with their heads, the hammers clicking back one after the other. Five more were struggling with someone behind them, and Majic was only too sure he knew exactly who.

"Find it!" A tall, blonde Monk barked over his shoulder, keeping his aim level at the top of Hartia's ducked head. "Alert the conclave!"

Suddenly two monks broke off and scattered like leaves, the sound of their scraping footsteps shrinking quickly before a voice choked out a haggard cry of pain and another monk stumbled back awkwardly from the cluster, his hands up around his neck and red stripes of blood tumbling out from under his fingers.

A familiar voice rang out sharply with a completely unfamiliar incantation. "Awaken me, _dawn of wrath_!"

All at once, the monks dropped; their legs giving out, heads lolling down on their limp necks, weapons crashing to the ground with them as they fell in jerking heaps of gray sleeves and thrashing limbs; convulsing on the stone pavers like desperate fish out of water. Their tight, strangled screams rang out and reverberated against the stone walls surrounding, amplifying them. On the courtyard floor, Majic could see his Master, his hand extended and tensed out in front of him like a claw, face expressionless and pale, blood already running out of his hair and down the side of his face.

The monks thrashed in violent seizures, their throat-grating cries prompting Hartia to cover his ears, and he called over to Orphen's knelt figure. "Krylancelo!"

But there was no response, only that hand half-fisted into a talon in front of him and vacant eyes. The wailing continued, a mindless, animal sound of agony.

"Krylancelo! Christ! That's enough!"

A few more moments of their obscene writhing-jerking-screaming passed before his extended hand dropped limply to the ground; a sudden hush dropping over the courtyard. The bodies went still, deathly silent while Orphen stared impassively down at his already bloody hands.

Hartia hauled Majic up by his arm and they picked their way over the limp figures of the Monks, nudgling the rifles away gently from the men's hands as they approached their prone comrade.

"…Master…are you alright?" What he'd really wanted to ask was _'What the hell was that?!'_ But he didn't.

Behind him, Hartia was stooped down, his hand searching the neck of the closest Monk, sprawled limp at their feet. He straightened up with a drawn, dour expression; and it didn't take any questions to know the men were dead. The body closest to Orphen was the one who'd staggered back from the group just after the others had sprinted into the halls of the outer cloister, his hand had fallen away from his neck and he lay on his back, his throat opened in a slit like a great, gaping red smile across his neck.

"Kryl—"

"Son of a _bitch_," Orphen finally spat, his bandaged hand soaked red, the other running with the same garnet that was splashed wet across his clothes; his long stained dagger lay abandoned beside his leg. He looked up at them, blinking to clear his head before wiping his hands on his cloak and vaulting himself up from the ground, holding his bleeding head. "I'm going after them."

"Why, there's no use…the surprise is already ruined," Hartia quipped grimly, dropping his eyes back to the murdered monk. "I'm sure the whole Tower couldn't have missed the uproar."

"No no, fuck surprise," he snapped, already disappearing into the yawning mouth of the corridor. "They took the fucking stone!"

They could hear him running ahead of them, his quick footsteps rattling up a set of stone stairs and already beginning to shrink from earshot behind the echoing crash of slamming doors.


	17. The Tower

**Chapter Seventeen: The Tower**

He was really just a kid, barely older than himself, and Majic couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. Unfortunately, his Master didn't seem inclined to feel the same.

The kid was a vicar, a priest in training from the look of the habit he wore and his minimal armament; with clean, sand colored hair and gray eyes that shone bright with panic in the light of the lecture-hall-turned-chapel. Majic had already swallowed one cry of protest when he watched Orphen break the boy's hand in their initial scuffle; and that anxiety had only swelled in the moments since then.

"Let's try that again, then. Where's the stone?"

"You're too late," the kid gasped petulantly, winded from the shock of pain that came with the crushing of his fingers under his assailant's boot. "The Bishop must have it by now. Now you'll have _the Hand_ to put you in your place…"

Orphen rocked back just a bit, pushing all his weight onto the back of the fractured hand, grinding his heel into it to push it hard against the gritty stone floor. The kid cried out, and Majic was sure he heard another bone crack.

"You were told to find it. You knew someone would be bringing it." He didn't phrase it like a question.

"Anyone who made it through the barrier could only have done so with the stone…"

"What do they need it for?"

"I don't know," the kid turned his chin up defiantly, his eyes so bright with terror no one could have taken that for anything but a lie.

"You don't. I see. And I suppose you don't have any clue where they're keeping a bunch of girls locked up?"

The kid looked up at him silently, his breath rushing in and out of his open mouth. Expecting another denial of any knowledge as soon as he could work up the words, Majic wanted to yell at him to just tell him what he wanted to know.

"…you won't get anything out of me. Yuh…you'll just have to kill me…"

"Admirable, but, nah." Orphen cracked, giving the boy a seemingly amicable smile that nobody in their right mind would have trusted as genuine. "I'm not going to kill you, kid."

The young cleric breathed an audible sigh of relief, almost seeming to relax a fraction before Orphen's bloody hands tightened on him, his knee pushing harder on the boy's chest, pinning him more securely. "You're going to tell me exactly what I want to know," he said calmly, his voice smooth but not without a ridge of malice.

"Nuh…no, I said…"

"And then," Orphen went on calmly, "you're going to tell me things that don't interest me in the least. Because you'll say anything to stop the pain."

"…oh…" Whatever color was in the boy's face was rapidly draining away.

"And I won't kill you," he continued, pulling his blood spotted dagger with his free hand. He drew the edge of the stiletto up the boy's pale cheek to press the tip just under one of those wide, horrified eyes the color of dirty silver, digging in just enough to break through the skin and a pearl of blood to bead up around the sharp steel point. "No matter how much you beg me."

The kid jerked in fear, pinned down like a butterfly in a science display, whimpering suddenly as Orphen pressed harder with the blade, leaning closer with a slow incline of his head; grinding his foot into the broken hand, pushing with his knee into his chest and the other on his pinned forearm; one hand on the dagger and the other tight on the vicar's narrow collared throat.

When he spoke again, his voice wasn't hiding his intentions behind any veil of false serenity. It breezed out in a low, sibilant hiss that held an unmerciful nastiness, even for Orphen. "And if those rabid, deranged Church elders haven't already relieved you of the parts you need to prove you're a man, kid, then believe me I'll do it for them. If you're lucky you'll be able to walk back out of here by yourself, so if you really don't want to test me, you ignorant, sick little _fuck_, you're going to tell me where they're keeping those girls if you want to piss right for the rest of your life."

"Go to hell," the kid's voice trembled out, and no sooner had it than Orphen had pulled the blade hard down the boy's cheek with the quick, distinctive snick of flesh parting. The kid yowled and Orphen gave him a hard vicious shake, cracking his skull against the stone floor before bringing the garnet-slick blade down towards his eye as though about to gouge it out. The kid's eyes squeezed closed as the tip froze a millimeter above the left orbit, and against the wall, so did Majic's. He was going to have nightmares about this, he knew it. He wanted to beg his Master to stop. Part of him just wanted there to be another way to do this. The other part of him just dreaded having that horrible voice turned on him.

"Next it's your eye," that voice said, barely recognizable. "We can do this all night, if that's what you want."

"…I…am but one life, and for my worth if I muh-may give u-unto…" a fragment of a prayer trembled out of the boy's mouth, his face already wet with blood. Orphen insinuated the knife a fraction deeper, then deeper, until finally the kid gave a hiccupping sob, "The second cellar!"

Majic opened his eyes, leaning his head against the stone with a debilitating nausea welling up in him that made his knees a little weak. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this type of thing after all.

"Go on." He didn't draw the blade back.

"On the west side. The daughters…they're locked down there. Buh-but I haven't seen any of them…they've…they've been poisoning the water. Puh…please…I…" he was hyperventilating now, visibly trembling, his face striped with blood.

"The water?" he growled furiously, giving the kid an upward jerk with his fingers fixed tight around his neck. "And where's your _leader_?"

"The…bishop?"

"Not the goddamn Bishop," he hissed. "None of the men we've encountered so far have been sorcerers and _you_ sure as hell aren't, and yet someone in your axis is controlling that barrier outside. _Who_ is that?"

"_The Hand_…" the little vicar moaned. "The Hand of Kimurak. The Bishop's new General…head of the Kimurak Conclave. He's…he's a sorcerer, the former Master of the order of Meverlenst before it burned…h-he allied himself—"

"The Thirteen Angels? And _he_ led the coup at Meverlenst, didn't he?" Orphen cut in. "Slaughtering his own people in the name of Kimurak only to turn around and pin it all on the Tower. _Why_?"

He jabbed the knife deeper and the boy sobbed his words out, "I! I don't know!"

"The fuck you don't!" He jerked the blade quickly upward for momentum, and the vicar flinched at the sudden movement, struggling to twist his head to the side and failing.

"To create a diversion!" he blurted in a rush, "…he silenced the whole town with a barrier that couldn't be penetrated…and he did something, some kind of spell to all the sorcerers, so they couldn't use any magic. Without the Tower and its people to contest the Bishop's cause…th-they could receive the Worldstone and imbue themselves and the conclave with the power to neutralize the barrier and pass through it on the…"

"Why do they need the stone? Can't he bring down his own ward?"

"Yes, but…it's not…it's not nearly as strong as…" he warbled.

"…as the Ailmanka barrier." Orphen finished for him, nodding to himself, as though somehow this actually all made sense to him, sneering down at the kid's bloody face, shifting the dagger and holding it tight against the fleshy underside of the kid's jaw. "All this to return to the Giant's Continent? Isn't that right? Someone calling you from over the sea? Can you hear their sweet, divine voices? Do you hear the singing of the _choir_?"

"Nuh…no…but…"

"No? These Gods that are worth bringing war and death…that have deemed it just and fucking necessary for you to poison a generation of young girls just to make sure no one opposes your efforts because some bullshit book told you to…do the _Gods_ make the world this way? Are they going to save you from _me_?" he mocked viciously, lips pulled back in a feral smile that didn't hold a drop of humor.

"Please…" the boy was sobbing openly. "I….I don't want to die…"

"Funny, weren't you just telling me I'd have to kill you?"

Majic felt lightheaded. He chanced a glance over at Hartia, standing guard in the arched doorway with his back turned to the spectacle, his head bent down a bit with his arms braced on either side of him. Obviously he was equally sickened by what was happening behind him; but if either of them had any alternative, they'd both held their tongues, and their silent allowance was just as terrible.

"You'll pay…for your sins…in this life or the next…" the tears were really coming now, big drops were rolling down his face, making clean lines through the mask of blood.

"Just another one to add to a long list," he said flatly, all the malice drained from his voice just as quickly as it had crept in. Then, with a quick jerk of his hands and a dull, telltale crunch like stepping in virgin snow, the kid went silent under him.

Off to the right of the dais, Majic felt bile rising hot in his throat; his eyes stinging and vision blurring. He closed them, his eyelids pressing out a tear that skipped down his cold, taut cheek. When he opened his eyes again, Orphen had stood up and was already on his way back down the aisle, between the wooden benches, leaving the body of the young vicar limp below the shelf of burning white candles in greasy round votives, their flickering light spilling bright on the twisted limbs of a boy that couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty at most; barely old enough to be called a man.

When he reached Hartia in the doorway, Majic watched the hunched figure of the redhead turn halfway toward his old friend and stare at him with what may have been disgust, but what looked more like fear. Even so, he spoke more evenly than Majic could have at the moment.

"And how is what _you just did_ any different than what the Church is doing?" he rasped lowly, just loud enough for Majic to discern the words on the other end of the quiet room.

"Did you have a better way?"

"You didn't even give it a second thought!"

"Have you forgotten about the river of blood the Church has left over the last few centuries? Weren't you the one spewing impromptu history lessons at breakfast?"

"He was just a _kid_!"

"He wasn't a child. Do I need to remind you of how many—"

"No! Just…_goddamnit_, Krylancelo, how could you _do_ that?"

"Are you coming with me to the cellar or not?" Orphen snapped callously. "I don't suppose you were so caught up in being disgusted that you didn't listen to _what he said_? Do you even remember why we're here? How many bodies do we need to find before getting those answers is justified with you, Hartia? If we find her _dead_, are you still going to be worried about this fucking little shit who would've gut me the first chance he got if I'd let him up?"

Hartia just leaned on the doorway, looking tired. "You've done that before, haven't you?"

Orphen went to move past him through the arch, but Hartia shot out an arm, barring his way.

"Answer me!" he hissed, and received only a stony gaze in reply. After a moment, he inclined his head to the side, resting it against the stone doorframe. "Who _are_ you? What did Razor's Edge to do you, Krylancelo? That's what that was out there, wasn't it? I've never heard that incantation before in my life…"

"Get out of my way, Hartia."

"If we find her dead, what are you going to do?"

"I'll _kill_ whoever is responsible for it." That dripping malevolence crept back into his tone .

"I don't trust that answer, Krylancelo. Listen, I…_understand_ how you are feeling…"

Finally that calm façade cracked, and Orphen lashed out, grabbing Hartia's clothes in fistfuls and launching him into a backward stumble into the hallway.

"No, you fucking _don't_!" he snarled fiercely, his voice faltering and breaking before he stormed past him and vanished down the arched stone passageway.

Majic had rushed towards them at the scuffle, reaching the doorway as his Master was already disappearing into the shadowed dungeon vault staircase, and Hartia was gazing after him with shock embossed on his face.

"Hartia! Are you alright?"

He nodded vacantly at first before turning vaguely to the boy. "He doesn't like it anymore than we do…" he murmured, an almost remorseful expression wrinkling his brow over diverted eyes, though Majic wondered if he was really saying it for his benefit, or his own sense of security. "Try not to think too badly of him…"

"How…" he cut short, distracted by something on the horizon of his peripheral vision: a dark trail following Orphen down the hallway. Something dark and wet, catching the dim gaslights of the wrought iron and glass chandelier in the lecture room that cast out into the corridor: a steady drizzle of blood.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

"I invite _thee_, gate of origin. I _invite_ thee, gate of origin. I invite thee, _gate_ of origin. I invite thee, gate of _origin_."

It must have been the fifteen-hundredth time she'd been through that pattern. She would kill just for a glass of water right now. Even just a single sip. Her tongue felt like paper. Her lips were bleeding, split and cracked from the dry cold and licking them over and over just for a moment of relief. But she'd run out of saliva hours ago. _Days_ ago. Now it was just a habit; her dry tongue just making the situation all the worst. Dry tear tracks felt tangible on her cheeks, pulling across the tight skin of her cheeks, all the way to where they trailed down her neck.

Every few hours, she'd break down and curse Azalea for even putting the expectation in her head that she could do anything but wait. She'd crumple into a ball for a few minutes and cry and throw the fit she needed to throw in order to resign herself to her only option. To pretend she had the power to unlock a door with words, despite that she knew she didn't.

But it was better than waiting in the corner for the door to open at the hand of whoever would come to kill her. The dungeon had become completely silent. If there were any more girls in the adjacent cells, she couldn't hear them anymore. At night, there were no more muffled sounds of crying. No more sniffing and clicking footsteps. No more slamming doors. Nothing.

And yesterday, there had been no tray. Some ridiculous part of her wondered for a fleeting moment if they could have possibly forgotten about her.

Or if this was her answer. If they would just leave her in the cell until she was dead.

And judging from the way she felt, it wouldn't be long now.

Her palms were cold and dry against the door, her fingers curled up, the tips of her nails digging into the soft wood, face wreathed in the silvery puff of her own breath. Her neck ached from sitting this way for hours; she was squinting through the fog of a three day headache. Her stomach no longer whined and begged her for food; she'd begun wasting away, living off her own body's tissue for days now. She could feel the strength in her limbs dwindling by the hour, and her mind would wander into the past off and on…as though to find a moment to cling to, to find a moment of inspiration to keep functioning until she couldn't.

No. It wouldn't be long now. If someone was coming for her, they were already too late. If they found her at all, they'd discover a bony, tear streaked corpse cramped down with its hands against the door in a position of desperate prayer.

_Here lies Cleopatra Aloysia Everlasting. Disappointing daughter. Beloved fuck-up. Would-be lover. Princess extraordinaire._ '_Requiescat in pace'._

If he was alive, that's how he was going to find her. Would he know how much she'd thought of him?

Would he know that last thing she'd said to him in the hallway, that it was a lie? That she hadn't meant it?

She wished she could tell him at least that much. If she'd had the capacity to write, she could leave a note. She could scratch it in the door. She could write it in blood. Her confession. Her prayer.

Hear me, see me, remember me, love me.

All of which seemed a little cryptic. A little weird. And if only she could figure out what Azalea had felt, maybe she could save herself. But she couldn't. She was stupid. A disappointment.

"…_But I bet you didn't know that I'm not even good at being a spoiled rich girl…" she'd said, forcing a laugh. She was already sniveling like a child. The laugh was just to cover her embarrassment at not being able to stop. _

_Before she'd even finished the sentence, he'd drawn back, and in place of a verbal interruption, tilted her face up to his with his hand, and kissed her. _

_She'd responded shakily, not sure what to make of his curious and entirely unexpected counter. Once he'd released her, he'd made up for that with a very typical comment. _

"_Christ. Don't tell me __**that's**__ all it would have taken to shut you up all those times."_

_As though he would have ever done that, even if he had known. She half-laughed, still shocked, still tear-streaked. "Well, it wouldn't work for everybody."_

_And inexplicably, he'd leaned forward to kiss her again. "Yeah well," he whispered against her mouth. "It had better not."_

In the dark of her cell, Cleo's legs were going a little numb, and she was blinking back fresh tears at the random memory. Funny. She hadn't really caught that comment at the time, but now she remembered it. She'd been too caught up in the feel of his lips moving against hers to register what that whisper had said.

It had better not?

What did that mean? Why hadn't she remembered that until now, of all times, when she couldn't ask him? When it was all over? When it was too late to matter?

Why had it better not?

Why did it even _matter_ to her anymore? She was nearly dead. He was likely dead. It _didn't_ matter! Nothing mattered anymore, and if there was any reason to worry about what had happened between them now, she couldn't find it.

Even so, she was starting to cry again, her shoulders drawing up and dropping in jerking, silent sobs of lost hope.

She just wanted out of this room. At this point, she couldn't bring herself to want anything more than that.

As she'd been for days now, she was collapsed against the door, her hands spread numb, her feverish, tear-wet cheek resting on the cold, rutted wood. She blinked her stinging eyes, determined to stop the crashing flood of self-pity.

What else could she do? She just wanted out of this room. And _this_ was all she could do?

"I invite thee, gate of origin!" she spat it out wrathfully, abandoning humility, eyes squeezed closed against the tears. And if her cheek hadn't been against the door, she may never have heard it. She'd stopped trying the knob every time hours ago; only checking it once in awhile…never expecting anything but the changeless resistance. But with her ear against the wood, she heard it.

A dull, slow, dragging click.

That _couldn't_ have been what it sounded like. _No_.

Almost fearfully, she reached for the knob. Twisted her wrist. Turned the knob.

The door creaked open, and new, silent tears slipped down her face.

For the life of her, she couldn't say what she'd done differently. She took a deep, shaking breath, and pulled the door open another inch to peer into the dark corridor. In the dark, it was impossible to know the time of day, but no one seemed about. The silent hush that had only grown deeper over the last day or so remained; only broken by the almost subliminal creak of the door hinges and the soft tap of her shoes as she pulled herself up against the wall, stepped into the corridor, and crept along the wall as quietly as was ultimately possible, her heart slamming hummingbird fast in her chest; ratting behind her ribcage, the anxiety shivering through her like rising floodwater.

Where would she _go_?

She crept through the black hallways for what felt like hours but was probably less than one, before she heard footsteps that weren't her own; the click of heels descending an invisible but nearby staircase. Her throat constricted, and she flattened against the wall, her breath and slowly gained confidence shuddering out of her. She was afraid to breathe. Someone was going to hear it, she was sure.

If only she had a sword, she might have felt a little more secure in her ability to protect herself.

A second set of footsteps tapped down, and a distant voice filtered to her. "They're asking for you, sir."

"In a minute," the second voice was deeper, older than the first.

"Sir, you're aware there are intruders in the fortress? The Bishop needs your protection, sir, and the conclave is waiting."

"In a minute, I said." There was the sound of a door clicking shut. "We have a more immediate issue."

"Issue?"

"Keep your voice down, first of all."

"I'm sorry, sir."

They were moving further away now, the words were becoming more indistinct. She caught only a few, even holding her breath, but there was only one word that was of any importance.

The word was _Everlasting_.

And when she was sure she heard it, she started slink in the opposite direction of those voices, the breath flooding in and out of her faster than before, sliding her hands along the cold stone wall until she was walking quickly, the leather soles of her riding boots softly scratching along the gritty stone. She was already breathless and exhausted, and a burning charge of bile swelled into her sore, dry throat when she heard that voice, now loud and clear, just behind her in the dark.

"Well, look at this, a walking testament to patience. If the Bishop wasn't _right_…"

She swung around with a strangled gasp, so startled she almost lost her balance, catching herself against the wall and backing up. How could he have moved so fast without her hearing?

"Miraculous timing, actually," the voice said, and finally she could feel the presence of another person, tall and hulking in the corridor and approaching quickly. Her mind was out of ideas, and instinct was elbowing through the blockage. She reeled back and ran, the corridor so black she might as well have been blind. All she could hear was the sound of her own heels striking the floor, her own frantic panting before she barreled headfirst into a warm, solid obstruction that knocked her to the floor, breathless and stunned, her skull striking the stone floor hard enough for her consciousness to sputter like a damp lampwick.

By the time she was blinking and sense was returning, she was already being hauled up by her arms, and that same voice she'd run from was speaking close to her ear. The voice was completely unfamiliar, but the words weren't. In fact, if she'd had the sense, she would have screamed.

"I dance in thee, mansion of heaven."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

The cellars were black and filled with acrid smoke from an overstoked furnace, which was fairly typical for the time of year. The Tower's subterranean dungeons had a tendency to leech the chill from the frozen ground all winter long, so to counteract the cold, the furnace was always stoked up high and smoking out the front grates. The smell of the smoke brought with it a flood of nerve-rattling nostalgia, and Orphen put a hand against the wall to steady himself against it; his adrenaline was already so high his fingers felt numb, which was probably best. It was hard enough to breathe, what with the smoke and with the throbbing hole the kid had stabbed in his side in their initial scuffle, so a little lack of sensation was probably a blessing right about now, considering that. He hadn't acknowledged the injury at the time, and the kid had dropped the penknife when he'd broken the hand that held it, and crushed it underfoot to hold it there. He couldn't muster up much in the way of sympathy for a kid who would just as soon slide a knife between his ribs as he could drop to his knees in prayer for his own life; but what the others were thinking about it right now was probably that he was a monster. And regardless, they probably weren't too far off in that assessment anyway.

It was best to just let it go. It didn't hurt that much, although it was bleeding worse than he'd expected. The kid was dead now besides. Questioning the wisdom or humanity of that episode would have to wait. Alleviating the darkness to find a way into the cells without feeling around the walls uselessly like a bunch of blind men was the main priority, and with that in mind, he'd headed toward the only light that glowed from far down the passage, through the stone arches of the antechamber door; toward the light of that familiar furnace.

But there was something else, behind that wistful scent of smoke. A sick-sweet smell like stagnant water, rotting flowers, old meat…a smell that hadn't been in these halls when he'd been here as a child. A disturbing aroma that he was following into the dark, despite the alarms it set screaming in his head.

The confirmation that they had indeed been poisoning their noble captives had set his insides twisting with cold dread; and the silent dark of the dungeon only made it worse. It didn't have the feel of a place where a lot of people were being held. It felt abandoned; empty.

He dragged the fingers of his good hand along the wall, the other curled in close to him; pressing his arm against the fresh wound to staunch some of the bloodflow, even as he felt the hot trickle seeping further down under his clothes.

"I can't see shit." Hartia whispered harshly, scraping along in the dark somewhere behind him. "Where are you _going_?"

"You see the furnace up there, _don't you_? I'm going there." He made a point of walking a little faster.

"What for?"

"'Cause that's all I can see right now!"

"Master…maybe we could make a torch?"

"Probably a good idea. Checking these rooms otherwise is going to be a bitch."

"This is stupid," Hartia griped as they crossed through the door into the furnace chamber. "Now we're just wasting time, there are plenty of spells we could be—_God_ how could it be so hot in here?"

The furnace door was standing open, the bright flames casting exaggerated shadows up the stone walls and over the floor, the enormous black grate ajar, pouring out heat as intense as the red firelight.

"I don't particularly feel like wasting energy I might need to defend myself later by using spells to light up rooms over and over," he spat testily at the redheaded blur, his eyes still recovering from the bright assault after the long minutes of pitch darkness.

Sweat was already flattening Majic's blond hair when Orphen looked over at him, squinting against the brilliant amber light that silhouetted his small, cloak wrapped figure as he was looking around for wood to make his torch. He'd just begun to turn away when his young apprentice reeled back suddenly; perhaps just as his vision had cleared and begun to focus in the brightness, and his strangled cry sent the other two rushing over to the boy, who had brought his hands up against his face before he turned on his heel, pitched forward and retched onto the floor.

Somehow, blinded by the sudden bright light as they must have been, they hadn't seen it right away. The dark masses along the walls that hadn't commanded any attention before, now, bathed in the light of the roaring furnace, painted a convincing image of hell. What Majic had stumbled across was an outstretched hand; the skin bruised black up the arm where it disappeared under a hundred other bare, dark limbs and piles of long, tangled hair of every color.

What Majic had found was the captive daughters of Kiesalhima's high-born. Or rather, what was left of them. A heap of organic refuse waiting to be broken up and shoveled into that high burning furnace. Nothing left but worm food.

The young girls that, according to the Arcana, would press their young lips to the cup of hemlock to ensure the salvation of all those who believed; because it was prophesized that one of them would attempt to thwart their return to paradise, their do-it-yourself version of rapture. One had to wonder if this fate had been voluntary.

From the look of the nude, face-down bodies, the Church had gone with cyanide instead of hemlock. They were swollen and black; and the old flowers smell he'd detected coming down the hallway; the scent he'd been following—this was where it was coming from.

He'd had an idea of what to expect. But it hadn't been this. Not this.

Frozen as he was, he felt Hartia's hand close on his shoulder. He saw his mouth move, speaking, but all he could hear the rush of blood ringing in his head. But from the look on his face, it was fairly clear what he was saying.

He wanted to know if he intended to look for her in that pile. For Cleo.

And did he? He didn't know. He didn't know if he could handle finding her, buried in his heap of rotting meat. But…all things considered, she had to be here…

Didn't she?

Majic was throwing up again in the corner, one hand against the wall. Orphen watched the boy a long moment as he ran his cloth-wrapped forearm along his mouth before he finally looked back at the obscene mound, stood up straight, walked to the pile bravely, and bent over with his hands on his knees.

"Do you see any blonde hair?" he asked weakly, coughing a bit. "Master?"

With numb hands, together they pulled bloated, blackened bodies out of the pile, digging out each blonde. One was far too tall, another too heavy, others too young or their hair too curly to even be a candidate.

They were almost through the stack when there was the first candidate he was sure, absolutely sure for one hideous moment that it was her. Face down, lithe and thin, golden hair long and straight in the firelight, hanging down her nude back; and in a flash his mind retreated back to his last night with her. She'd sat up suddenly in bed, pulling out of his arms, her back naked and bright with the light of the fire in the open wood stove as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

With that long, fair-skinned back laying inert and dead in front of him, a wave of emotion crashed hard over him and he brought a shaking hand to his head for just a moment, but long enough for Majic to look up at him anxiously. Mechanically, he reached for the delicate shoulder and turned the girl over, and she fell back, limp and heavy, staring up at the ceiling through the unfamiliar brown eyes in her stranger's face. He saw the tightness of anxiety smooth away from both Hartia and Majic's faces, and even though relief washed through him, antiseptic and cold, the damage had been done.

Because for that one, split second, he'd felt what it was going to feel like when they _did_ find her. If it was in this pile or the next; that squeezing icy grip of grief was already in his chest. He might have mistaken it for an impending heart attack if he hadn't been far too young for such a thing.

"Master…maybe instead we should be checking the rooms to see if anyone is still alive…" the poor kid sounded like he was about to cry. Orphen didn't blame him. Part of him wished he could, too.

"Maybe…" he said, still looking down at the dead blonde. Some Lord or Baron's little girl, lying lifeless in a dungeon with everything of her that used to be red turned blue from the rims of her eyes to the cuticles of her nails, dropped in a pile of other spoiled little princesses all divested of their supremacy.

A long time ago, there was part of him that would have gotten a sort of sick satisfaction from all of this. Because once he'd had to fight just for enough to stay alive; had to compromise everything and condemn himself to suffering through a living nightmare, and people like this dead girl had everything they needed and wanted and more just handed to them on diamond studded platters and now…she was dead and he was still _alive_, and that should have meant he was the winner…but it didn't. Not now.

Now he just felt like there was no way to win. Never for him.

He reached up to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving a red swipe of blood across the dead blonde's naked shoulder, which Majic eyed dubiously.

"Maybe…" Orphen said again, pulling himself off his knees and casting a look over at Hartia, who'd pulled off his cloak and rolled up his sleeves. "But first…let's check the other pile…"

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

She watched in apprehension as the tall sorcerer knelt at the foot of an elderly man wrapped in so many white robes it seemed a miracle he could still walk. From what she could see, the old man pressed what looked like a rock into the tall man's outstretched hands as though he was handing him some remarkable treasure, something sacred.

The room looked like it had once been a classroom or lecture hall, a chalkstone amphitheatre with a wall of long, narrow windows that let in the slightest glow of drab, gray daylight. The shelves at the front were lined with burning candles in glass votives, a heavy iron chandelier hung high above them, casting down an oily drizzle of yellow light over lines of low wooden benches. It was on one of these benches she'd been forced down with the muzzles of two rifles trained between her eyes. In retrospect, she wasn't altogether sure this was preferable to the dark room in which she'd spent the last week.

The tall man with the long braid, he had dragged her in after painfully teleporting her out of the dark; holding her arm hard enough in one hand she was afraid he'd just snap it like a pencil if she resisted any, and handed her over to an armed set of Monks. Kimurak Warrior Monks, the same type of holy soldier that had arrived with Leticia in Alenhaten the day they'd taken her; the day they'd shot Orphen.

But this time, those rifles were pointed in her direction. She watched another set of monks carrying out the body of a blonde young man in Kimurak robes and a high collar spotted with blood. His face was masked in red, his head twisted at an awkward angle, his arms hanging down limp on both sides of him and swinging as they carried him out. She watched him be hoisted down the aisle and vanish through the stone arch of the doorway, until she couldn't turn her neck any further before she turned back to the front of the room, towards the old man and the tall man.

The tall man had stood again, in the light she could finally get a better look at him; but he was no more familiar than he'd been in the dark. He wore the same white and blue Kimurak robes as the Monks, cinched and covered with shoulder guards and armor around the waist; his dark hair cinched tight in a long braid that swung low behind him. His face, from this far, was just a face. Eyes, nose, mouth set in a pale square of a visage that didn't seem threatening or commanding; but she knew all too well the man was a sorcerer; so why he would be dressed in Kimurak robes and kneeling at the foot of this old man was well beyond her.

The Church reviled Sorcery as one of the causes of their expulsion from paradise; their exile from the presence of their Gods. She'd heard enough about all of this from her mother. She'd told her; warned her for her whole life that if that Church could find a way, they would do anything to spread the disease of their zealous faith. They'd murdered her Father to ensure their stranglehold remained on the parliament, as a silent demonstration of their deep influence. Their authority could not be denied among the nobility; something for which their family had always been shunned. It was why her father had built their home in Totokanta, away from Meverlenst and the seat of the aristocracy, where the Kimurak doctrines were law. But in the end, here she was. If it was the result of never listening to her mother, if it was just karma for her awful behavior her whole life, or just inevitability…it was impossible to know. But as the tall man was speaking to the elderly priest in robes, they were both looking her way; and even from far away, she could see a smile blossom on the old man's face like a terrible flower. Then, slowly, he rose his hands, the great white sleeves of his robe opening up to make him look like a great blue and white moth, his spindly arms stretching out of them: thin, dry tree branches covered in second-hand shriveled skin.

When he spoke, the room fell silent. The other monks dropped to the benches, bowing their heads; and the men at the front in darker robes, their hair likewise braided but less armored than their leader, dropped to one knee in anticipation.

"And yea, in that year, you shall encounter such detestation. The children of common men will regard the descendants of our fathers with blank eyes, and they will not know you or your hearts. Their souls have been poisoned by heresy and base lies that have turned them against the truth and the Gods. These men and their fathers have turned their eyes from the glory of the Gods, and no amount of teaching will bring them from this mire that clouds their eyes and stains their souls. But fret not, sons and daughters of our old home, for only by returning from whence we were exiled, may we again be embraced. Our suffering is our distance from the Gods, our exile from our homeland, and the disdain of the children of the jeweled black maidens of Rosemead, from whence all evil things are born."

"Amen," the room returned to him, and Cleo jumped a little at the sudden chant.

The man dropped his raised hands, and dread crawled through her as he approached her, hobbling forward with that grandfatherly smile, his rhemy eyes focused on her face. "It's never too late to ask for forgiveness, my child."

"Forgiveness?" she asked, her voice dry like autumn leaves. "Forgiveness for _what_?"

"It isn't your fault you were raised as a heathen, Miss Everlasting. It is not too late to ask forgiveness for a life of sin and faithlessness. The Gods will hear you, and be merciful. All they ask is your patience, my child. It is only in death that we are all truly absolved."

"In death? I suppose that's what you had in mind when you people killed my father," she rasped.

The old man gave a patient nod. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, child. It is one thing to be godless among your own; but when heathens begin to press this sinful ignorance upon the world, they must be silenced before they spread their disease. But that can end with you, dear; the Gods are always willing to accept your confession."

Her confession?

Cleo jerked forward, incensed. If she could only get her hands around that slim wrinkled throat, she would _show_ this bastard—but of course, the rifles clicked off their safeties, the barrels trained up closer to her, and she was restrained. Her hands were already tied. Of course, they wanted to convert her before she died for their cause like the others already had. Wasn't that right?

"You want my confession, old man?" she snapped. He seemed entirely nonplussed by her fury, which only stoked the flames of her rage. She called up the last bit of sticky saliva she had in her body, and spat in that wrinkled face.

Immediately the tall man, the one with the braid, lashed out at her in the old man's place; slapping her so forcefully she felt a tooth loosen in the back of her jaw. Her head whipped to the side as her tied hands were jerked back, a gun barrel pressed at the back of her neck while a tear slid involuntarily from her eye.

"Your grace!" the tall man attended to the old, mopping his face with a handkerchief with a look of passionate antipathy. "How shall we proceed with her?"

"As you like, Djinn. Remember not to judge her too harshly…after all, what behavior can one expect from the scapegrace daughter of a heretic house?"

She wanted to whip out and kick the Bishop in his doddering old shin; she could probably crack at least one, maybe even break it. But with the barrel of a rifle tucked against the nape of her neck, it was a little easier to control herself.

"They all assumed it would be the Everlasting girl to start off with, besides. There are only so many fallen lords worth speaking of, and even less of them have trollop daughters that travel around with degenerates. The Arcana could barely have been more specific, and she did reveal herself, after all. But even so…" The Bishop was dabbing at his face with the cloth in the oily lamplight, turning to the tall man. "My apologies if you feel lumped in with my generalization of sorcerers, Djinn."

"I don't, your Grace. While I regret the deeds of my ancestors, I too well understand their errors. I can only do my duty to you to begin in correcting them."

"Then to your work, Hand of Kimurak." The old Bishop smiled again, like a father might at his son. "I wash my hands of what happens here. Once the conclave is ready, come to me; I will await you all. The hour approaches, my friend." He set a wrinkled paw up on Djinn's plated shoulder, as if in reassurance, before he dropped it and ambled away with not another glance in Cleo's direction.

She was held in the same position, the gun barrel tight against her skull, while the doors shut behind the Bishop and his attendants. She was held, her head arched back against the rifle, her bound hands forced down so hard her shoulders were beginning to ache from the pressure, but she could still see Djinn, the man the Bishop had called the Hand of Kimurak, the man that Azalea had her about—turn on his heel and head up the steps of the dais, where the men in dark robes and braids to match his were waiting with whatever the Bishop had bestowed upon them; what had looked like a rock. In confused apprehension, she watched Djinn bring up a gleaming hammer over his head and bring it down with an echoing clatter over the rock, which shattered into glasslike shards all over the polished stone tabletop on the podium, their makeshift pulpit, where lecturers might have stood when it had been a classroom.

Where were all the sorcerers; the students and teachers, the occupants of the Tower of Kiba? Where was Azalea? Where was Leticia? Was there _anyone_ left alive but her?

They held her still even when the men in dark robes extended their hands onto the tabletop in front of their leader, who, even as they cried out against the pain, began driving the shards of the shattered stone into the palms of their hands with a blow of the hammer; puncturing their hands with the splinters like hammering nails into a fencepost.

Cleo gasped in her throat, the Monks pulling her back a few steps as the men who were doubled over, clutching the wrists of their punctured hands began to hyperventilate and then flail about feverishly, their furor escalating until they were screaming and wild, speaking in frantic tongues that seemed far beyond simple pain, one by one they tore at themselves before bringing their bloody hands up to attack each other like rabid dogs. While a few men were strangling others, locked in that stance like elks fighting for superiority; others were actively skirmishing, pushing each other against the walls, cracking skulls against the stones—and all the while, men lined up to have those shards driven into their hands, staring forward placidly, as though hell weren't erupting around them.

Weapons were appearing. One man, right in front of her bench, whipped a dagger from his belt and plunged it into another's chest, even as the other fell to the ground he crouched and followed him to the floor, sinking the dagger into his body over and over; the blood flicking up against his clean face and the white piped collar of his dark blue robe with every extraction of the blade before it sank home again. Finally he seemed satisfied with his work, and with a slow roll of his eyes, turned his gaze up to her.

She would have cried out for help, but the Monks held her tight in place. She squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could; bright pinpricks of stars blossoming in the darkness behind her eyelids, and with every muscle in her body tensed, Cleo waited for the painful blow.

A sharp wet sound made her flinch back, but there was no pain. She started at the sound and the gun barrel disappeared from the back of her head. The tugging on her bound arms lessened as the Monks clattered back and she was thrust forward into another set of hands that were already pulling her along. When she opened her eyes, the room was still in chaos, the snarling and yelling reverberating off the walls even as she was being towed down the aisle, blood was splattered in arcs across the pale stone of the walls, and uneven pavers of the floor. The men were murdering each other and the remaining monks, the ones that had held her were at the mercy of the man with the dagger, dropping their rifles with staggered backfires that struck the chandelier, sending it rocking violently on its chains above them.

Djinn, the Hand of Kimurak, the man Azalea had warned she must not allow to touch her, was pulling her out of that den of insanity, her feet fumbling under her as she stared back at him. There was blood on his face, his mouth pulled into a sick version of a grin; like some sort of demon didn't know how to smile, and was just imitating what he'd seen to trick her into trusting him. Before she could say anything, he laughed.

"I could have just thrown you to the conclave," he said jovially, gesturing back to the tangle of enraged murderers that had once been the pious braided men who had only minutes before been peacefully on one knee before the Bishop. "They would do as they wished with you; ravage you, tear you apart, drink your blood…who knows what they would choose. Just look at them!"

He hauled her out the inner doorway and into the Professor's Chamber, the door rattling hard on its hinges behind them. The man flung her down hard, and she toppled onto her back, her spine rolling painfully on the basalt block floor, knocking the wind out of her, even as she struggled against fatigue to scramble to her feet. The chilling sound of screaming out the door was amplifying; the sound of benches scraping across the floor and crashing over each other.

"Just feel lucky that instead I've decided to deal with you myself," he said, bringing his bloody palm against the door to push it shut. That's when she could see it, imbedded in his hand and protruding from the back of it, between the thin framework of bones: the sharp tip of a black shard. If it wasn't before, now her heart was in her throat, hammering frantically; knowing that feverish, reasonless gleam in his eye was all too easily his version of the feral bloodlust that had gripped the Conclave outside.

But rather than drawing the curved blade at his hip, as he started back towards her, he was doing something that made her blood run cold.

He was undoing his belt.


	18. Judgment

**Chapter Eighteen: Judgment**

He was running back through the black vaults, Majic and Hartia's feet thundering along behind him as he sprinted up the stairs, climbing towards the unearthly screaming that had erupted in the rooms above. Even in the dungeons, the harrowing echoes had sunk down through the walls of stone to their ears and they'd abandoned the hot, rancid furnace chamber to follow that terrible cacophony.

Whatever it signified, obviously, was what they were after.

At the top of the stairs, the world started spinning violently and Orphen clutched at the wall, his legs going weak for an infuriating moment while he blinked the white blur away with determined anger. Of all times to falter. It must have been a delayed effect of the heat. Probably the wound wasn't helping; it was bleeding like a bastard.

Majic appeared at his side, catching hold of him before suddenly pulling his hands away in surprise at the wetness of his clothes and turned his hands palms up, towards his face to find them slick with blood. He turned an almost baleful stare on him, an impressive attempt at intimidation, to the boy's credit.

"Master," he hissed under his breath. "You're injured badly."

He tried to shake him off, but the kid held fast to his arm. "I have a feeling you're planning on doing something stupid," he added unapologetically.

The screaming was gaining a fevered desperation down the long gallery as Orphen leaned against the wall, trying to turn his eyes past Majic, who had his mouth set in a grim, tight line. At the boy's grave expression, he let out a breeze of a laugh that he'd intended to sound casual, but had ended up sounding a little desperate instead.

"What are you talking about? I'm not planning _anything_. Since when do I _plan_?"

"Master, promise me you won't do anything reckless. You know how upset she gets when you're hurt."

His eyes flicked closed, that unignorable vertigo reaching up from below to drag him down again. His knees almost gave out and he leaned more heavily back against the wall. He shouldn't have run like that after exerting himself in that bloody heat.

"Well," he muttered woodenly. "What does that matter now?"

Orphen had never _really_ been any good at lying to himself. At denying the truth, an absolute master, but actually being convinced at the accuracy of his denial, ah, that was where he really failed. By now, it was rather clear that she must be dead, just like all the others. Dead and in a pile somewhere, naked and alone with her once alabaster skin bruised black from the cyanide; or maybe they'd burned her already.

He didn't…he wouldn't…_couldn't_ think about that. No. No.

_No_.

Perhaps he just hadn't quite prepared himself for how it all this was really going to feel. It certainly wasn't the ideal outcome; not what he might have hoped, despite it being exactly what he'd expected since the night before after reading that random passage in the Arcana. After Majic's unwelcome invective, he'd sat out in the falling snow, feeling himself crumbling apart piece by piece like a falling tower, indulging in a few moments of self-loathing and pity before he steeled himself again.

He'd asked himself…or God…or whoever…why these sorts of things continued to happen to him. Why nothing could ever go well, just once, in his life. Karma, he guessed. He had a lot of lives to pay for in suffering, but sometimes the cruelty of fate still surprised him. He'd tried to laugh through the tears blurring his eyesight like a shivering oil slick, agreeing at least that it was delicious irony.

Tragic and absurd enough for a stage play; one of those good ones where all the characters end up lying dead when the curtain finally falls. Murder and suicide all over the stage. Betrayal and treachery from those they'd once trusted.

But all in all, if emotion was left out of it, it all seemed fairly typical. For him to wait so long to admit something to himself that it was left too late to do him any good at all. For him to finally realize that the strange sense of inexplicable panic he felt building up inside him when he looked at her was just his stupid, twisted heart reaching for her through a mile-thick fog of denial and guilt.

And best and most pitiful of all, the fact that she would have never known how he felt about her, never even guessed, because he was so incredibly excellent at treating her like absolute garbage.

In his whole life, he'd made a lot of mistakes. Just about every single one he could have made, probably. But he'd never felt like more of a pathetic fuck up as he had in that moment the night before, staring at the shadows of snowflakes falling around him like ash slowly burying him. Cold and aching and as alone as he deserved to be.

"_You'll pay for your sins…"_ the young vicar had threatened, just before Orphen killed him. _"In this life or the next."_

Yeah. He already had been paying for _something_ just about since before he could remember. It all went hand in hand with how things in his life usually ended up. When had anything ever been easy, or gone particularly well, or had he ever been unduly fortunate?

Right. Fucking never, never, _never_. Even the winding way that horrible sword had practically led him straight to her had been a path fraught with horror and pain. All of that…just to be here, right now, with the initial shock wearing off and the wrenching agony of losing her this way beginning to eat through him like bubbling acid. The entire time they'd travelled together, he hadn't treated her even for a day, _for a minute_, like he cared about her at all.

But he had. He still _did_.

It would have been better if he'd just never met her at all.

Majic had said it all along. Despite the different universes they'd come from, they were remarkably alike. Somehow, seeing all the things he hated about himself in her made him…feel close to her. Made him want to be near her. Even though she made him crazy.

That old saying about always hurting the one you love. Obviously it worked both ways.

"It matters," Majic said intently, his voice a million miles away. "It still matters."

Finally Hartia brought up the tail, huffing up the stairs carrying his cloak, the top buttons of his sweat soaked shirt undone, his hair damp and clinging crazily to the sides of his face.

"Dammit!" he puffed, leaning against the wall next to Orphen, "I hate stairs. Did I ever tell you that?" He let out a sigh, tilting his head back against the stone and closing his eyes. "Did I ever tell you that I hate stairs? Well, I do. I hate them."

Orphen glared over at him from where he was leaning on his folded arms, he opened his mouth to issue a scathing reply when the scraping of feet on stone sent his defenses kicking in, despite how his thoughts were dragging him desolately into a dark corner of his soul.

He shoved away from the wall, leaving an inkblot of blood behind while Majic whirled around in fear, bringing his hands up instinctively as he'd been taught, though to no avail. All three of them similarly froze; their initial movement having only been met by the clicking of rifle hammers been drawn back by the set of four armed Monks that now filled the passage. Unexpectedly, an elderly man in long, pristine white robes covered in spirals of blue embroidery was standing calmly behind them with a placid expression on his creased face.

"I believe we've inadvertently found our intruders," the old man said with a sweeping gesture. "I suppose I should welcome you, gentlemen…after all, we've been expecting you."

That calm, soft old voice and the screaming echoing up the funnel of the stone hallway just didn't mesh. Was the old man deaf? Couldn't he hear it?

"Expecting us?" Hartia wheezed resentfully behind them. "Who…._who_ have you been expecting?"

"The sorcerer who would bring the Worldstone to this Tower, as the Inquisitor promised."

"Inquisitor…"

Though he breathed the word as though he'd never heard it before, he knew who the old man had meant. Leticia. That traitor _bitch_. The one they called the Scream of Death for the impressive control she had over the power and ease of manipulation she had with her vocal means; Leticia Macready could entrance others with simple words, could coax information or a confession from the most armored mind. She took audibly-projected magic to another level; and more than one person had come up with the idea over the years that perhaps she must have been of blood relation to him because of this distinctive shared singularity. After all, she'd come from the same orphanage as he and Azalea, up in the mountain town of Laindast. It wouldn't have been completely unreasonable. She, however, always had waved this off as preposterous. Of course, she'd also revealed to him that her attachment to him ran deeper than their association as "family" in the Tower's eyes. She thought of him as more than just her "little brother", whatever that meant.

Leticia. How could she?

She'd _known_ about the stone? She'd _known_ he would bring it here?

How--?

Before he could even finish the thought, the answer materialized in his head, but not before one of the Monks stepped forward, pointing his gun barrel right in Orphen's glaring, bloodstriped face. Unavoidably, looking down that narrow black tunnel reminded him vividly of how it had felt to be shot by one of them, and reminded him of just how much he didn't want to tempt fate with that cannon aimed between his eyes.

Sorcery couldn't fix everything. And he couldn't die yet.

"Bishop—we must remove this threat."

"Threat?" the old man intoned softly. "My son, can you not hear the conclave's rapture? These men can no longer pose any threat."

"Even to you, your Grace?" The monk with the aimed firearm didn't budge an inch, his voice more hard edged and hostile than it probably should have been in the presence of his Lord. "I've seen this man slay my brothers, sir, and I won't allow it to happen…"

"Your orders, sir?" Another, calmer disciple piped up behind the belligerent guard, his aim level at Majic's general area of importance.

The old man folded his hands peacefully in front of him, his long sleeves hanging low below the knee of his billowed vestment, nodding his head vaguely as he issued his judgment. "Take them to see the General."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

She inched backwards on her hands, head spinning, the blurred figure of the man they called the Hand of Kimurak hulking over her with his big arms, a long black braid swinging behind him as he walked towards her in what felt like a dizzy sort of slow motion. Breath flooded in and out of her; giant panicked breaths that made her feel lightheaded, made her face and the roof of her mouth tingle with cold fire like blood was rushing into them.

His intent was clear, and even as the wails of the conclave were growing ragged and demented beyond the shut door, he seemed to pay them no mind. Almost as though he couldn't hear them at all. His fever-glossed, bloodshot eyes swung over her as he bent down, catching the waist of her jeans and jerking them open so violently she heard the dark, blood dotted denim rent apart along the brass zipper, and even through her delirium, she screamed, bringing her hands up in defense and flailing her legs wildly in horror, kicking hard in hopes to land a blow.

This _couldn't_ have been what Azalea had meant when she said not to let the man touch her… but she had said something that spoke of this man's character. _Who ever heard of a Kimurakist sorcerer?_

Cold hands caught at her wrists, bending them down to the stone while an armor clad knee sunk painfully between her legs to squelch the kicking. The sudden exertion in however many days it had been without food or water already had her exhausted and her poor head whirling, and what she'd intended as a scream shrank down into a whimpering plea for him to stop.

With a fog of his hot exhalation in her face, she choked on her terrified breath and arched her neck back away from him, every second of her determined struggling sapping her limited energy so thoroughly she could almost feel it running out of her like a sponge that could hold no more water. He was catching the toe of his boot in the torn crotch of her jeans to jerk them down while she gagged and tried to cry out, and looking down at her, he laughed; a horrible chuckle that mixed with the echoes of lunacy clawing at her ears from beyond the door, and the shuttering reverberation of distant doors slamming shut.

"How the mighty have fallen," he nearly sang, breathless with the madness that burned in his fever glossed gaze.

Irate, she did the only thing her mind could think of. She lunged as far forward as her limited range of movement would allow, opened her mouth, and sunk her teeth into the exposed flesh of the man's thick neck. A rush of coppery blood, the first flavor to meet her tongue since her abduction, and he shouted in surprised pain, jerking back hard and out of her reach. One of his meaty paws snapped up to his neck on reflex, abandoning her wrist for just long enough for her to take an arcing swipe at him before he hauled back with that huge bloody mitt and slapped her hard enough to whip her head to the side, her teeth clicking shut and biting hard into flesh inside her mouth as her face impacted the stone floor.

"Prodigal daughter of a fallen Lord," he hissed mockingly in her face. "Wasn't it nice of them not to just call you a filthy godless _whore_ like they should have? What were you planning to _do, _little Everlasting?"

With both her wrists squeezed excruciatingly tight in one fist, he was jerking open his trousers with the other, his knees keeping her legs painfully pinned or otherwise useless. With vision that was blurring with fatigue and gathering tears, she squeezed her eyes shut hard, choking on dry sobs, her consciousness dipping dangerously in a last attempt to flee. Perhaps the only mercy she could ask for would be to die before he followed through with his sickening intent.

Perhaps she was imagining it, but the grating, mad shouting in tongues from beyond the door had taken a new shape. The lunatic wails had morphed into the sounds of a struggle. They were fighting each other. Killing each other, as surely their leader would kill her once he'd debased her as he wished.

Bile burned in her throat, hot tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes and into her ears, she could still taste blood. His hands yanked at her jeans, at the pink lace of her underwear. He snarled some nasty comment, but it turned to garbled nonsense as it bubbled from the snide curl of his mouth. Had he said something in another language, or was she just beginning to shut down? All she could hear were the flat, hard packing sounds of fighting, benches scraping back fast against stone floors, wood splintering. Shouting. The explosive sound of air splitting. Everything but that was muffled and indistinct, like listening to someone speak from underwater. In reply, she let out another choking, sobbing plea.

Maybe she was imagining it. But she heard a voice. If it was behind the door in that fight, or existing only in her head, it was impossible to tell, but she heard it: a male voice cutting through the noise, young and high pitched with anxiety.

It said: "I create thee, small spirit!"

It couldn't be…_Majic_?

Cleo sobbed harder at the thought. That either they were here, or the trauma had her hallucinating up saviors now that she had no more method of saving herself. One way or the other, she did the only thing she could. She sucked in as much air into her tired lungs as she felt able, and screamed. As loud and desperately as her protesting vocal chords would allow.

Her assailant, the man that that fucked up, ancient Bishop had called Dijinn, started at the burst of ear-splitting sound before using his free hand to once again cuff her hard across the face. The world flickered around her, the scream cut short, and she heard the stomach churning sound as the man spat into his hand deliberately, pulling her pale pink undergarment roughly to the side and she wrenched away in revulsion at the brush of his wet fingertips, a shuddering wail of protest jumping from her throat as the door splintered behind him under the force of a screaming wave of light.

Cleo coughed hard while he was pulling her out of the way, rolling through the smoke and showering dust, facedown in her tangled clothes, those hot, wet paws pulling her upward by the bunched neck of her sweater and dragging her through the splintered doorway with a nonsensical tirade of furor, ending with an extension of his blood slick hand and a sentence she recognized:

"I let thou flow, Angel's breath."

Before the words had even died in his throat, a sharp gust of cold wind whipped through the room, clearing the smoke and debris, and Cleo shut her eyes on reflex against the stinging air. It only occurred to her then that the room once reverberating with the wild, rabid cries of the Bishop's high council of priests, the Kimurak Conclave, had now gone deadly silent.

Her brain was spinning with vertigo, and she slit her eyes open against the heavy curtain of exhaustion that threatened to drop over her. The benches were broken and scattered across the auditorium, and men she recognized as members of the conclave lay in limp heaps of twisted limbs and robes dark with stains of their own spilled blood. At the open archway, the old Bishop in his white vestment lay propped against the stone doorframe, slumped forward and face slack, his once pristine robes blackened around the throat and shoulders with a smoldering soot of scorched blood.

Cleo swallowed hard, clinging tremblingly to consciousness as her eyes came to focus on the source of the voice she'd heard: a cloaked boy no older than sixteen, with neatly clipped corn colored hair and eyes gleaming with fear. A boy she'd known since she was a child, and had grown to think of as the younger brother she'd never had. Her eyes blurred over with delirious tears, while the boy swung around and shouted, "_Master_!"

Before she could even process the word, there he was. The boy's Master. A slim figure in black who approached from the corner of the room she couldn't turn her head toward, a cloak blowing behind him as he walked forward with a slight limp, stopping halfway down what was left of the aisle to regard the braided man, just close enough that even with her fading vision, she could see his stoic, cold expression.

Orphen.

She wanted to call to him, to cry out, to scream his name, but instead, only more tears came; wringing moisture from her body she didn't have, and with every feeble drop, the image of him almost seemed to darken gradually. She tried to speak and only gasped instead, but it drew his attention all the same, and finally his eyes met hers.

A drink of water couldn't have felt better than that.

His brief glance was dark and unreadable, but utterly raw, and his gaze drew down along the tattered shreds of her dirty clothes, her jeans rent open and dragged halfway down her legs, her skewed underwear barely clinging to her hipbone.

He looked back up to the man in a second, his eyes flicking quickly over him: his bloody hands, trousers and armored belt all undone and jangling open around his waist.

Finally, that beloved figure in black spoke, shattering a silence more deafening than the thundering dissonance it had replaced.

"Looks like I interrupted something," he said, his voice so frozen and dull it was barely recognizable, but regardless it was still possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

"Useless," Djinn barked, almost with a laugh evident in his tone, even as he turned his gaze around the room, finding his men all lying dead; as though it mattered. It hadn't mattered minutes before, back behind that door. "This has gone far beyond the Bishop now. His death will stop _nothing_."

"The old man?" Orphen said, briefly looking back at the slumped body of the Bishop. "You're right. He was no threat. Unfortunately, it's my intention that none of this Church will be left alive when I'm done here."

"Is that so? I see. And just who the fuck are you?"

"Krylancelo Finrandi," he said smoothly, pulling a long, slender blade from his belt as he spoke those words she wasn't sure she'd ever heard him actually say. His name—it sounded so different when he said it. Beautiful, somehow. Correctly accented or something. Maybe she was just so relieved to hear his voice. Maybe she had just always loved how everything he said sounded.

"But, I suspect you may have heard I was coming," he continued, closing in a few steps, close enough that she could see that the long stiletto was already wet with blood. It was all over his hands, running out of his hair and down the side of his face like a savage's war paint.

"Ah, so it's you…the Tower's golden child. They say you have a lot of names, just like the Devil." Djinn said casually, his grip on her ruined sweater tightening, the woven threads creaking as they stretched under his fingers. "The Successor of _Razor's Edge_. They speak of you even among those who study under the Angels at Meverlenst. Or, at least, they _used_ to. I thought you ran out on them. Became some sort of contract killer, wasted everything they'd put all that hope into. What a joke. You don't have what it takes to fight me, Finrandi. Not _now_."

With that, he extended his hand, fingers fanned out for him to see the palm. Blood dripped from the heel of his hand, the large sharp tip of what was left of the Worldstone protruding from the shredded flesh of his left palm like a nail in a crucified criminal.

"Is that so?" Orphen mocked tonelessly. "You need to _borrow_ power to go up against me? I don't know what the hell you expected to happen, but I took the liberty of relieving your men of the splinters that were causing them so much agony. Though I have to admit, some of them were already dead when I got here." With a humorless grin, he shook a little purse on his belt that jingled like broken glass. The shards. "Is _this_ what all of this was about? The stone?"

"My imbuement by the stone has nothing to do with _you_," Djinn sneered indignantly. "I have become the walking key to the salvation of thousands. The people of the true faith are sheltered inside the Kimurak Monastery, and I shall lead them back home. My own barrier is nothing compared to that which imprisons us away from those that promised eternity. As a sorcerer, Finrandi, you of all people should understand just what it would mean to be accepted by the Gods of those who _created_ it. These faithful dead were imbued, like me, with the power to pass beyond those illusory chains, and you will have to answer for upending that."

"These men weren't sorcerers," Orphen spat, an edge creeping into his voice. "Using the stone as a talisman would be one thing. But…forcing Tenjin power into their bodies made them nothing but mindless animals. But that's what you intended, wasn't it? You _knew_ they couldn't withstand it, just as any sorcerer would. You wanted to be the only one. You wanted to be the walking _key_, isn't that right? Make yourself indispensible? Become worshipped as some kind of fucking savior? Who knew those Kimurakist cowards in Meverlenst could brainwash one of the Thirteen Angels into decimating the city on a bullshit promise of eternal glory. "

Djinn gave him a sanguine grin, "I guess we'll never know. The Angels are no more. The Emperor is dead, and every believer of the faith will follow me beyond the barrier with no resistance from Parliament or the Tower of Kiba."

"All thanks to you."

"Yes," he smiled. "Thanks to me."

"They were just using you to get the stone. Once they had it, they wouldn't need you anymore. You knew that. That's why all this…that's why you—"

"You don't think the Church would ever really fully ally themselves with a sorcerer, did you?"

"And the girl?" Finally his mirror calm showed a crack, and even from afar, Cleo could see the boiling black hatred behind it, if only in his eyes and the tense line of his posture.

Djinn laughed again. "The gospel's forecasted saboteur. Just a loose end."

"I see," he returned darkly. "A loose end. Well then, why don't you let her go and deal with me, if that's the case?"

"Afraid I can't, Finrandi. After all, that Inquisitor must've told you."

Orphen didn't take the bait, from the expression on his face, anger was winning out. "_Look_ at you, holding a woman prisoner, you _pathetic_ _**fuck**_. What's she going to do, huh? Why don't you _show_ me this magnificent power you've obtained, or does it only match you up against defenseless females?"

"If that's what you wish. A man should have the right to choose how he dies. Remember that you are _making_ that choice." The man drew a long, curving kris from his undone holster, holding the skewed handle gingerly in his fingers away from his wounded palm for a single moment before tilting swiftly into motion.

Several things happened at once.

Orphen launched forward into a sprint, while the Bishop's General swung to the side and heaved his frail prisoner into the wall with all his strength, dashing her skull into the stone frame of the splintered door. With a startled cry that cut short, she tumbled bonelessly to the floor, landing facedown and deathly still as the reverberation of quick footsteps rattled through the room, and the big man extended his bloodied hand at him and called out an incantation.

"I see thee, Lady of Chaos!"

Mid-stride, Orphen ducked behind a fallen bench, the crashing roll of energy ripping just overhead while he panted, near delirious with the intensity of the white-hot, mind-bending wrath scorching through his veins, the rabid bloodlust that had replaced his fear in the moment he'd seen her alive, hanging in that bastard's grip like a dishcloth. Her state of half-undress, the tears and blood and terror on her face…he was churning inside, a murderous chill was sinking deep into the marrow of his bones and he did nothing to fight it.

He was going to lick his blood from his blade while he watched him die.

Still behind the bench, he began an invocation under his breath, "O Holy War, beyond my contract…" And he threw himself out, tucking his head and rolling with his arms extended, pain lashing up his torso from the impact to his injured side. "_Finish_!"

The branches of lighting ripped forward, sending wooden benches flying. The long, narrow windows popped loudly from their frames, exploding glass out into the dim grey daylight, sparkling like a flock of doves in flight; and even as the effect was still thundering around him, he dropped low on his haunches, adding with an intake of breath, "I crush thee, origin of silence!"

The gravity spell shook the room with a growling rumble, the stone floor giving under the pressure; the flagstones cracking audibly even as the General was nowhere to be seen. From all around him, he heard the end of a spell being barked out—too late to bring up a shield.

"…thee, heaven's wall!"

Orphen dropped onto his hands, the air ripped from his lungs so completely he couldn't defend himself, couldn't even hear what was coming next.

"I flip thee, hail of glass!"

Breathless, he was sailing through the air before he could even process it, his body impacting the far wall with a hard grunt as bones cracked: ribs, wrist joint, shoulder blade; his head striking the stone hard enough that for just a moment, there was nothing but darkness and he tumbled to the ground like a thrown ragdoll.

"Krylancelo!" Hartia was running at him as he was pulling himself up on his elbows, blinking back the black edges that were closing around his field of vision.

"Bring a healer!" he snapped at the redhead. "Scour the wing, find where they're all hiding! Go!"

Without a word, Hartia turned on his heel and sprinted from the room, his robes flying behind him as Orphen pulled himself up, leaving a smeared splatter of blood on the floor where he'd fallen, catching himself on the wall and coughing, eyes shifting back over the landscape of the ruined lecture hall. The General was nowhere, and the little blonde pile that was Cleo remained still as a stone beside the busted door, Majic kneeling beside her, covering her with his cloak. He nearly called out to him—

"A little distracted?"

The voice was behind him, almost at his ear; and he redrew his blade with a twist of his shoulders, catching him around the neck with his other arm on reflex and powering the big man back, straining hard with his legs. The General's right arm was smoldering black, a sweet burning smell of scorched flesh filling the air around him. So he'd been hit by _Holy War_ after all. They struggled for dominance, wrestling against the wall, teeth bared, Orphen's blade inching slowly closer to his throat.

He wanted to hack his windpipe out, slice it out of his neck and watch him bleed to death on the floor, gurgling and flailing as he drowned in his own blood. And this close up, with the bleeding set of teeth embedded in the side of his neck, it looked like Cleo'd had that idea first.

The man must've seen him glance at the wound. "She's a feisty little bitch, that one. Bishop knew it would be her all along. That heathen Everlasting House has always had it in for the Church."

"You don't say. And so all those other girls you slaughtered…" he snarled, straining forward with the blade. "They were just for show."

"You can never be too careful, Finrandi." With a flash of his blackened hand, he'd slashed the curving edge of the kris across Orphen's stomach, and he flinched with the pain as it slid through the leather clothing and through his flesh.

"Light!" he snapped in reply, and at this close range, with his hands on him, the General lurched back, his teeth clicking shut audibly like he'd been hit with a jolt of lightning. He reeled back a few steps, his robes smoking and he groaned as he leaned over and spat a chunk of flesh into his hand. Part of his tongue. That sudden snapping shut of his jaws had taken quite a toll. He glared down at it a moment before throwing it angrily to the floor.

With blood running from both corners of his mouth, his face curled into an ugly sneer, brow pinched in pain, the General recovered quickly and charged him, spitting a mouthful of dark blood in his direction and swinging his blade in a wide-reaching arc, catching Orphen's cloak as he strafed to the side, ensnaring him in the fabric. They rolled to the ground, growling, and Orphen heard Majic call out to him, though what he said, he couldn't tell.

The General, the Hand of Kimurak, whatever the fuck he was called—his hands were closing on his throat, the sharp needling point of the Worldstone shard jabbing into his windpipe painfully and he gagged for air, pushing up with his legs for leverage to little effect.

"That Everlasting bitch—she's _your_ little whore, isn't she? That's why the Inquisitor said you would come here, isn't that right?" The man grated out, his speech impaired by his compromised oral appendage, and the sick laugh that followed was a low, obscene gurgle that inspired a cold crawl up Orphen's back, even as he gasped for air.

"I'm sure you'll be able to rid her of the feeling of me inside her. But wait, maybe you won't have the chance…" he chuckled again, clawing into his neck with surprisingly long nails, even as he was straining to reach his blade. "Don't worry…she was calling for you the whole time, Finrandi. Even when I brought her."

His fragile sanity gave. And something inside him, that black devil of a something he was always pushing back, surfaced. Like an ugly fish from a dark lake.

He stopped fighting, went limp, and with his last available breath, he hissed, "I enter thee, circle of night, and am consumed by flames."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Majic watched them struggle, wringing his hands white. He couldn't hear him calling to him. Warning him that Cleo was barely breathing. That her pulse was just a light flutter against his probing fingertips. That he didn't know what to do.

He watched as the big man reeled back a moment, spitting something out into his hands before launching back at Orphen. Where was Hartia? Why wasn't Hartia here to help him with this? He'd never felt so useless in his life. The only healing spell he knew was doing absolutely nothing, and he was so scared he could barely feel his fingers anymore.

They were on the ground now. The other man was practically a giant, huge and hulking with enormous shoulders…and no matter how skilled a fighter his Master was, he didn't seem to be gaining much ground. If only he could get some distance from him, he could use sorcery more reliably. He could hear the rumble of their voices, but the words were indistinct.

Where was _Hartia_?!

Hands clasped tight, Majic watched in impotent fear as Orphen suddenly stopped moving, but not before a violet flash seemed to spark between the two struggling men. They were both still for one long moment, before the big man he assumed was the Bishop's General, the Hand of Kimurak as the young vicar had called him, calmly drew up on his knees, letting go of his Master, who quickly rolled away with an audible gasp and came up on his hands, staring at the man who was now standing dumbly, his arms hanging limp by his sides, a long curving blade grasped lightly in one fist.

And he just stood there. Like he was waiting.

But before he could open his mouth to call over, Orphen, up on one knee, made a strange gesture at the man: he lifted his hand, clenched it into a fist, and with it, drew a cross over his chest.

And Majic watched in horror as the man mimicked the gesture, with the hand holding the blade.

With a straight face and without even a cry of pain, he plunged his own dagger into his chest and pulled it around. He ripped it out with a wet sound of suction and sunk it in again, carving with the blade edge, and the sharp squelching sounds were nothing compared to the bright pulses of red that lept from the holes he'd made in himself. Suddenly, he dropped the blade with an echoing clatter and dug in with his hand instead, ripping the flesh madly, cracking away bone and sinew with both hands now, digging in with his fingers and finally retrieving his prize; a glistening lump of twitching red flesh.

His heart.

He held it in his hands a moment, then he pitched forward, all at once utterly limp, and he crashed the floor with a wet slap, falling into the shallow red lake he'd created, leaving Orphen staring blankly forward at the space where he'd been standing, and the room in a ringing silence.

Outside, snow was beginning to fall beyond the narrow, blown out windows of the lecture hall.

The barrier had fallen.


	19. Death

**Chapter Nineteen: Death**

Majic felt his stomach clenching dangerously, his mouth watering in the revulsion inspired by the lurid gore left behind now that the General had inexplicably slaughtered himself—seemingly at Orphen's command.

…was that a spell?

That _couldn't_ have been a _spell_!

"M…Master?!" Terrified, he ran at him.

Orphen was down on one knee, leaning forward on both hands, his back raising and falling with labored breathing. The boy had to call twice more before he finally looked up, and when he did, Majic flinched back. His face did not bear the quite the expression he'd anticipated. Instead, he almost seemed to be smiling.

"Master, please…she needs help…I don't…" he threw up his hands in frustrated panic. "…I don't know _what to do_!"

He blinked at him, that depraved look of satisfaction suddenly vanished so completely it was as though he'd imagined it.

Orphen closed his eyes, his brow furrowing before stood shakily, ignoring the plea for just a moment to stand over the facedown body of the fallen General of the Kimurak Church. He gazed down impassively at the garish pile of viscera and blood heaped on either side of his spread limbs, like dressings around roasted poultry. The shining wet heart had dropped a few feet to his left, a wobbling red trail painted bright on the grey stone where it had rolled from his limp hand.

Majic's poor disturbed guts lurched when Orphen drew back a leg suddenly and kicked the heart hard, the smooth little ball of flesh skidding across the floor and out of sight; and finally the boy doubled over and gagged—though to no effect; he'd already thoroughly emptied his stomach in the furnace room. When he straightened up, his Master was already stalking over to the shattered back doorway, where Cleo lay, prostrate, arms extended, covered to her shoulders in the wool cloak.

He watched Orphen hold his blood-wet fingers close to her mouth a moment, feeling for breath; then as he checked the desperately thready pulse at her jugular. Perhaps as a response to the red smear he left on her skin, he stiffly, almost mechanically, he wiped his bloody hands on his clothes before reaching back and easing a hand under her the nape of her neck and turning her face up, into the crook of his arm where her head lolled flaccidly, her hair falling back to reveal a livid purple contusion spreading over her temple and cheekbone. He drew his rusty fingertips over the bruises with a cautious gentility that made Majic turn his eyes away on reflex, fighting an inappropriate blush. Somehow he felt as though he was intruding on something intensely private, despite the dire situation, but Orphen's raw voice made him look back up with a start.

"Haven't you done _anything_?" he was trying to sound stern, but his voice wavered precariously, and Majic swallowed a surge of awkward anxiety.

"I've done the only healing charm I know…over and _over_, Master, but it didn't seem to help anything as far as I can tell…she needs medical treatm—"

"Find Hartia," he interrupted hoarsely, looking back down at her, limp and mortally pale in his arms, and shifting her all the way onto her back with gentle, bloodstained hands. His cloak settled back from his shoulders as he did so, affording Majic an alarming view of the fatal wound opened across his stomach through his slashed clothing: bright blood pulsing steadily from a long, deep ravine carved across his abdomen and trickling over his belt, down the glistening wet, black rawhide of his pants and gathering silently around his knees with frightening speed.

"Master!" Majic jerked forward with both hands fanned out in distress. "Master, you're…o-oh my God…what should I—"

"Find a healer for her…" he rasped, not looking up. "I already sent Hartia…there has to be somebody…"

"But!"

He looked up, his eyes dark, stricken and not to be argued with. "Please, Majic!"

With terror and shock, mouth agape, Majic took a few steps backward before spinning, stumbling and running out the door after Hartia, only looking back over his shoulder once to see Orphen tip his head forward against Cleo's neck, holding her up with both arms wrapped up around her slack shoulders.

And as the boy's footsteps shrank into the distance, his Master could hear his young voice echoing back at him, screaming for help. For Hartia. For goddamn anybody.

Had she always been this small? This fragile?

He'd always viewed her as sturdy. Not manly or anything, but strong and capable for her size—but now she felt so tiny and thin, her bones no bigger than a bird's, her whole body made of glass.

"Wake _up_," he whispered to her. "Cleo, _please_…I can't fix this. You know I can't. Please…just…for once in your life…just do what I _ask_ you…"

He was bargaining with himself, only speaking for his own benefit. She couldn't hear, he knew that. But talking to her as though she could hear him felt better than waiting silently and thinking about what had happened in the minutes before he'd finally found her…while he'd been digging mindlessly through bodies, _searching_ for her, she'd been…been…

He couldn't let his thoughts stray in that direction; couldn't revisit the last words the General had said to him that had, in the end, sealed his fate.

No matter how he viewed it, he'd been too late.

With trembling fingers, he checked for her pulse again—feeling so sickeningly ineffectual and helpless he would've screamed if he'd had the strength, but as it was, sitting upright was hard enough. The straining weak flutter of her heartbeat against his fingertips and the tiny puffs of breath against his ear were enough to ignite a furious burn of complete blind panic in his brain, and every awful thing he'd ever said to or about her came surfacing in his memory.

"_I'm sure she's fine," _he'd once snapped at Majic, what felt like a lifetime ago. _"That girl would probably gore any rapists that came after her, anyway. I can see them now, running away with their pants down, screaming in pain because a harmless looking little blonde ripped their balls clean off…poor guys…"_

He'd said that jokingly, sort of, covering his own slimy tracks the morning after he'd ended up in bed with her—making sure Majic didn't think he would be worried over anything having to do with Cleo. And he was so wrong in saying that. He hadn't meant it even then, but he'd never thought…never _once_ thought she'd really…

Oh _God_, he was such an asshole. With every soft breath he heard against his ear, it drove that dagger of shame deeper until tears were stinging in his squeezed shut eyes. Somehow, all of this felt terribly familiar. The helpless desperation and guilt of being left behind. Like finding your most treasured person in the dark, bent over in agony with a cursed sword through their chest, moaning for help you had no way of giving.

And if he'd thought he'd been unprepared for the shocking pain of being too late to save her before, he had no clue how to deal with the feeling of holding her while she died.

The truth is a man can be orphaned again and again and again.

The truth is he _will_ be.

And what he'd thought was that this would hurt less and less every time, until he couldn't feel anything at all.

Instead, he felt like he was dying. And maybe that was just it. Maybe he _was_ dying. He couldn't breathe.

And maybe it was better that way.

"Cleo?" he whispered, running the back of his bloodstained knuckles along the curve of her bruised cheekbone, his throat tightening, going dry as dust, his voice forgetting the art of spoken word as he fumbled deliriously with the usual lack of ability to articulate anything but anger. But if even if it was his final breath, he wanted to use it to tell her he was sorry; just to set one thing right…even if she _couldn't_ hear…there had to be some worth in the attempt.

"Little brother…" he heard the voice before the clattering footsteps; a dissonant, muffled flurry of conversation across the room. "What have you _done_?"

Slowly, he opened his eyes—finding nothing but a swimming smear of color and light, but despite that her figure was blurred, he would have known that voice anywhere, even half dead as he was. He could have sworn he'd heard her say that before.

"…Azalea?"

He felt her hands pulling his shoulders back, and in the distance there were the ringing sounds of metal striking metal. More fighting had erupted someplace else. If the barrier had dissipated when its creator had fallen stone dead, likewise any binding or silencing spells he'd casted should have, and must have, been nullified.

If that was so, the Tower was free to fight.

While he was distracted by that, Azalea was taking her; pulling Cleo gently from his arms with the help of someone else who wasn't speaking, and whose face he couldn't discern until he heard the familiar voice of the erstwhile Black Tiger impersonator who had once been his closest friend.

"Krylancelo…come on…let her go…"

Let her go? What did that mean? She wasn't dead yet!

Unduly startled by the thought, he let her slide away, blinking languidly in an effort to focus. She was already out of reach when he finally succeeded, and all that came into view was his own hands, palm up in his lap, bright and slick crimson with blood again despite that he'd wiped them off—and all he could think was that he had no idea whose it was anymore. It could have been almost anybody's by now.

The little vicar's, the Bishop's, the General's, Cleo's, his _own_…

That seemed to happen a lot. That despite how he tried, everyone's blood ended up on his hands eventually. Not knowing whose it was seemed quite fitting to him, even as his vision and thoughts shorted out entirely, and he slipped sideways to the floor.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

_I dance in thee, Mansion of Heaven._

He'd spoken that incantation a lot in his life, but the funny thing was that he didn't believe in such a place. In Heaven. It was just a phrase that didn't mean anything. Just metaphorical nonsense words.

But when he next opened his eyes, everything was white. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets. White on white on white. As white and as quiet as he imagined Heaven would have been, and for just one single exhausted, head spinning moment, he was convinced; floating in a sea of mindless, amnesiac perfection.

Moments like those were better than real life anyway.

Then, of course, he remembered.

Remembered that if there really was a Heaven, there was no way he would have gone _there_ if he _was_ dead.

He was in the Tower infirmary.

There was no pain. None at all. But in place of that, he was stiff and heavy; just bringing an arm up to move the bleached sheets back seemed it took every drop of energy he had lingering in his body, which wasn't much.

And a glimpse of what was under those crisp white sheets was enough to figure out why. He was sewn up with tight crosses of black suture nearly from hip to hip, the angry red edges of the slash pulled together with the thick, knotting thread like a ragdoll's seams. Another stitched slice traced neatly between two of his bruised ribs, the injury inflicted by the boy priest—much worse than he'd assumed. Looking at it all should have revolted or alarmed him at least a bit, but in his miraculously pain-free torpor, he might as well have been looking at someone else entirely, and was only able to study it with detached interest while he gradually came to a semblance of his senses.

Oh yes. He was definitely drugged. It was the only explanation. He should've been in excruciating pain. He knew his collarbone on the left side was broken, he'd heard it go—likewise there was the green and black swell of bruises over his entire right side where he'd impacted the wall, a mess of broken and cracked ribs underneath, both his hands were wrapped tight with gauze. To say nothing of any sort of trauma he may have overlooked.

His inexplicable will to live continued to impress.

And he felt so calm. Relaxed. At ease. Exhausted. His eyes slipped closed once more.

What had he been fighting about, anyway?

"_Krylancelo…come on…let her go…"_

Abruptly reason came crashing back in the wake of those reverberating words, and he sat up so fast his head barely felt like it had come with him as he rode out a spinning wave of nausea.

Squinting for clarity, head feeling pumped full of empty air, Orphen threw back the starch stiffened sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, tugged at the tubes trailing into his arm until they slid free, snatched his red headband from where it coiled on the bedside stand and with more effort than it had ever taken, stood and let himself quietly out of the room.

His left leg was wrapped halfway up to his shin. His clothes were gone, cut off and ruined probably, replaced only by standard issue black cotton drawstring pants he remembered wearing when he'd been sent here before. Years ago, as a young teenager, after he'd sunk a dagger in his own side during Caldor's demonstration of a vicious technique from Razor's Edge, meant to ensnare a mind into submission and open it to any command. Like a self-inflicting voodoo doll. A masochistic puppet.

The former master of Razor's Edge had displayed just how useful such a spell could be…and made him remember it well. Even under his gleaming white veil of opiates, he could remember the pain and numbing fear, having plunged his own blade into himself at Caldor's mental insistence. He'd been in the Critical Ward for days afterward. Azalea and Leticia had called off their ongoing grudge match to scold him thoroughly and demand an explanation. But he hadn't been able to say why he'd done it.

Because he didn't _remember_ doing it. And explaining the technique itself was forbidden. He'd fumbled around for a lie at the time, but any explanation he may have used for nearly gutting himself didn't seem quite good enough. In the end, he'd chosen not to explain at all. Even when Cleo had found the scar, he'd still lied about where it had come from. He'd said it was from a fight, which was believable enough. He couldn't have explained to her that it had been a fight with himself.

Since that day, only a few weeks before Azalea's unfortunate accident, he'd sworn never to use it. The Circle of Night. The Dawn of Wrath. Agony in the Garden. Any of the Razor's Edge techniques. They were just too brutal, too awful to use, even on an enemy. Killing in combat was one thing. But those inhuman spells inflicted pain and damage in a much more direct way; it wrested away resistance and control. But somewhere, under all the honor and self-control he'd boasted of for so many years, something horrible had been growing. Without even a second thought, he'd breathed them out without even a ghost of remorse.

And even now, he didn't regret it.

He would never be as heartless as Caldor Isle. That's what he'd told himself, only to become a murderer later. That probably made him a hypocrite, but, even so, it seemed different.

He squinted around the white hallway, unnerved by a silence only fit for a hospital corridor at three AM. Four AM. Whatever time it was. Very late or very early, that much was obvious. There hadn't been the sound of so much as a footstep on the gleaming white marble tile. The gaslights burned bright, the jets turned up high enough for the flames to blacken each narrow glass chimney set along the wall, their shivering light casting multiple stretched shadows of his figure in every direction encircling him, like great gray flower petals around his bare feet.

It was difficult not to wonder if he was dreaming. As though in a nightmare, his legs were carrying him forward to his destination, heedless of his stupefying dread.

Was she alright? Was she…_alive_?

There it was, at the end of the corridor. The Critical Care Ward. The big glass windows set into heavy double doors.

How long had he been asleep? Somehow he felt as though he'd slept through a thousand years; an entire ice age. If he'd dreamed, he didn't remember.

Or was he still asleep now? All those days of insomnia and now he couldn't determine a nightmare from being awake.

He continued forward to the doors, stopping to stare through the view window set into the wood, the bright burning lights of the hallway reflecting back his own sallow likeness in the glass, an expressionless doppelganger of himself that he only had to shift the wavering focus of his eyes to examine. Just the pale floating moon of his own face against the bright backdrop of the infirmary corridor, and nothing else. Reaching slowly forward, he grasped the door handle and stood there, frozen, fatigue and anxiety swimming through his limbs with slow inertia. He leaned his shoulder on the door, inclining his head forward desolately until his forehead rested against the cold glass, his face too close now to see the reflection, and his body providing enough shade that he could see past the glare and into the dark landscape of the ward beyond the glass: a corridor set with narrow doors, low burning lamps mounted into the walls.

And he couldn't help hesitating.

What if she wasn't in there? It seemed like no matter what he did, he was doomed to keep chasing after her shadow.

The soft tapping of slippers on tile jerked his gaze down the hallway like a hooked fish, where the solitary figure of his young, blond apprentice was approaching him with something of a guarded expression. Obviously, it could only be attributed to what he'd seen him do…to that kid, to the General…but despite what he'd done, he couldn't feel guilty for any of it.

Even though Majic was looking at him like that. With caution. Maybe even fear. But he guessed he didn't blame him.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he said softly, keeping his voice down either because of their location or the hour. Could have been either. Or both. "You need to be _resting_."

"No, I…can't…" Speaking proved a little harder than he'd thought. He really _was_ doped.

"Why?"

"I just. I just can't. "

"Yes, you can," Majic corrected patiently, like he was speaking to a stubborn child. "You're always saying you _can't_ do things when what you mean is that you _won't_. There's a difference."

"Mmm, " he grunted, turning an annoyed glance over to the boy a moment before dismally returning his eyes to the dark window.

"Master, really…have you taken a look at yourself?"

"Yeah…I'm fine…" After all, he wasn't missing any pieces. He was about as fine as he ever was, the drugs were seeing to that. Even though he _looked_ like he'd been autopsied.

The kid made a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough and turned away tiredly. "Let me get you a robe…"

"Where is she, Majic?"

The boy stopped and turned back with a disturbing hesitation and an even more unsettling sorrowful gravity pulling at his young, perpetually bright features. His eyes dragged along the floor a moment, avoiding looking him in the face. It wasn't until now that Orphen noticed his arm was in a sling, stitches in a knotted black line under his left eye, and he felt a little guilty for not asking how _he_ was doing this whole time.

"She's in there…you already had the right idea, Master."

"Ugh…don't call me that."

The boy affected a perplexed look. "Wuh…why? What…do you want me to call you?"

"I don't know. Just…don't call me anything…for a little while," he muttered, his hand spread against his face.

"Okay…" he went quiet with an uncertain frown in place before continuing. "Are you going in there?"

Orphen leaned back against the door, closing his eyes. "Yes."

"Do you _feel_ okay?"

"Nuh…well…yeah. I can't tell. They've got me on something."

"Wonder why," Majic said, with a flat, sardonic sarcasm that had been forced into his vernacular by situations just such as this. He was normally such a sweet kid.

And for some reason, Orphen almost laughed at that. He was so exhausted; and actually, he wasn't sure if he could go in there after all. Anxiety was peeling his nerves raw, but before he could say as much, Majic moved past him and opened the door to the ward, walking easily through the door and motioning him to follow.

Once again, like in a dream, his feet carried him ahead down the low-lit passage, trailing Majic to a another window-inlaid door near the end of the corridor, where the boy glanced back at him briefly before, very slowly, opening it and waving him inside.

Just one moment in that bleak, dim room was enough to translate that distressed face his apprentice had made out in the hallway. There she was in the white, narrow bed on brass casters, so tiny and pale she almost blended into the sheets, and he had to smother a wordless sound of objection at the sight of her with her little ivory hands folded across her abdomen like a corpse.

But she was alive.

He guessed he should have felt relieved. But seeing her…

"Has she been awake at all?"

Majic shook his head gravely in response. "Even without the injuries, the doctors said she's in bad shape."

"…in what way?" Did he really want to hear this?

"Malnutrition. Exhaustion. Severe dehydration. They said it was lucky it's been so cold, or she wouldn't have even made it _this_ long."

"They were poisoning the water. That's what the kid said."

"Right," Majic said softly. "But she knew that, it seems. She wasn't drinking it. Wasn't eating anything they gave her."

"How would she know?"

He shrugged miserably. "_I_ don't know."

"Her head…?"

"They said she's got a pretty bad concussion. So far she hasn't woken up, only made a few sounds when they moved her around a lot. That's why they're watching her so closely. They expect she'll sleep a couple days before she begins to respond."

He didn't have an intelligent response for that at first, only a contrary observation. "No one's watching her now…"

"I was sitting with her. I just left to get some tea…it's still snowing out there. You may not feel it, but it's awfully cold to be walking around like that..."

He grunted dismissively.

"I don't suppose you're planning to go back to bed right away. Why don't you sit down and I'll get you something to wear?"

Orphen looked over at him. He wasn't sure if Majic had just given up trying to worry about him or if he'd just gotten very good at dealing with his obstinacy.

"What happened to your arm?"

The blond boy looked almost surprised before a darker look replaced that expression. "Ah. It's my elbow. One of the men with…the shards…got a hold of it before I could get away…and…"

"Did you get him?"

With eyes that swiftly sunk to the floor, Majic nodded vaguely. "Yes."

"What did you use?"

"…Light's Unsheathed Blade."

"Good job, Majic," he said softly, wondering if he'd ever said it before.

The boy looked up at the praise with his green eyes looking flat and dull. "… I've…never killed anybody before, Master."

"You knew it was bound to happen eventually, didn't you? When you started studying sorcery…what did you think it was for?"

"I know…I just…" Majic looked away, gazing over at Cleo's prone figure in the bed. "I guess I just…wasn't exactly prepared for it."

"You're never prepared for something like that, Majic."

He boy didn't look at him. "…I guess _you_ would know."

Ouch. If he'd meant that comment to hurt, it did the job. Though it didn't seem quite like him, but such stress was bound to get anyone acting a little out of sorts. From the beginning of his apprenticeship, he'd worried that one day Majic would know just what sort of person his so called _Master_ really was, and would stop looking up to him with those young eyes full of admiration. From that comment and the silence that followed it, it was evident that that day had come. There was a saying that a man could not, for any considerable period, show one face to himself and another to the multitude without beginning eventually becoming bewildered as to which of them was the truth. Nature, as they said, will ultimately reveal itself. On a long enough timeline, it was an inevitability. He ventured a glance over to find Majic's eyes still facing forward, fastened on their incapacitated companion. But before he could reply to that barely veiled accusation, the kid spoke again.

"What happened to that man?"

He should have expected that question a little more than he had, but either way, an explanation was going to be difficult. "He's dead, and he deserved worse. What does it matter?"

"Because…I don't know…I was just surprised. You've never taught me anything that made it seem like such things would be possible."

"I know."

"Hartia said—"

"Hartia doesn't know what he's talking about," he snapped.

Apparently still expecting an answer, Majic said nothing in reply, so instead of a response, Orphen asked him a question. "Do you know what I used to do, Majic? Before I came to Totokanta. How I survived?"

The boy's eyes finally turned back to him with apprehension. It wasn't as though he hadn't asked before and hit the usual wall. "Well. You said you were a money lender."

"Sure. But where do you think I got enough money to lend out like that? You want to take a guess?"

He was asking since obviously the answer had crossed the kid's mind before, what with that remark earlier. After a moment of hesitation, Majic answered softly without looking over at him. "You killed people. Didn't you?"

Orphen nodded vaguely. "…but you knew that?"

"I didn't _know_…" Majic said carefully. "It had occurred to me before. I'd _hoped_ I was wrong."

"Does knowing for sure make a difference to you? Or is it worse…what I did to that sick fuck that raped her?" His voice shook a little when he said it, although he'd intended to sound angry.

Quickly the boy's face lost any amount of resentment it had held, his voice when he spoke suddenly so quiet and brittle he wished he hadn't said anything at all. Majic was such a nice kid. He didn't deserve to go though any of this; but being a sorcerer was what he had wanted, and God knew what he'd expected from it. "He…_r…_? Ha-how do you _know_?"

"He told me," he replied tonelessly, forcing the words out. "He told me that—" The sentence caught in his throat, and he almost choked on it. He couldn't say it. Not to Majic. Not out loud. Not to anybody. "—and I just…I used that attack, even though I swore I never would."

Majic was quiet for a few minutes before he spoke again, and in his peripheral vision, Orphen saw him bring the back of his hand up against his face a few times, wiping tears.

"Hartia said it must have been part of Razor's Edge," he said softly, each word wavering. "I've heard him mention it before to you—"

"That's right," he sighed, all at once overwhelmed with disgust. "They only pass down that title to the one they want to do the Tower's dirty work. And that's why, no matter how much I oppose them, they'll never stop coming after me, bribing me to come back. Because I'm the only one who knows those spells, which makes them about as good as lost forever."

"They wanted you as their _assassin_?"

"I guess that's as good as way to say it as any. So when I left the Tower…it just seemed like that only thing I was good at. If you can imagine being good at something like that," he gave a nervous-sounding chuckle there at the absurdity of such an idea. "That doesn't mean I enjoyed it. Or was proud of myself."

Majic said nothing for a long moment, only stood beside him in that cold, dim room. "How old were you then?"

"About your age, I guess." It felt weird to be talking about this at all, much less with Majic.

The boy nodded, another long silence ensuing before Orphen spoke again. "But still…I wouldn't use that spell. That or any of the ones that go along with it. Because I thought, even if I was killing people…every time I did it, they still had a chance to fight me off. They had a chance to kill _me_. But Razor's Edge…it takes that chance away. Making a man take his own blade to himself…I don't know. Would you do it…if you didn't have to?"

Majic thought about it. "I don't know if I could…even if I had to, Master. Oh…sorry." The title had slipped out. Probably just out of habit. Not because he thought he deserved to be called that. He hadn't even noticed he'd already slipped up earlier, and Orphen didn't point it out.

"Yeah, well." He'd once thought the same thing. But an urgent thirst for revenge will make a man do things he never thought he would. Just like what they said about love, he guessed, which in this case, was sort of the same thing. Sometimes there was justice in murder. Despite that it had likely irreparably changed the way his apprentice thought of him, and despite that it had been too late to truly save Cleo.

The early morning quiet grew thick around them, and finally Orphen ventured forward towards the bed and stood beside it, looking down on the frail looking form that rose under the white sheets and blankets. He silently watched the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed delicately in and out. Familiar tubes trailed into her arm under patches of sterile adhesive tape, hooked up to glass bottles of saline and glucose hanging from metal hooks overhead, and looking down on her, he felt strangely empty and bereft of any sense of reality.

Before his increasingly weak knees gave out, he sat down in the little wooden chair Majic had pulled up close to the bed. The quick, contracting movement of his abdomen provided a sudden unsettling glimpse of what was waiting for him behind the fog of sedation and painkillers, and at the back of his mind, he started to dread how he was likely to feel in a few hours.

Majic must have seen him wince. "I'll get you a blanket or something…it's freezing in here."

Orphen turned to reply, but he'd already disappeared through the door, the soft moth-wing tap of his footsteps down the hallway dwindling to nothing before the heavy sound of the ward doors closing behind him assured him that he was alone again.

And for what felt like hours, he just watched her. Watched her sleep. Watched her breathe. If it hadn't been for the drugs coursing through his system, God knew how he might have felt. But whatever they had him on was keeping his anger response at bay, and instead, he just watched her intently.

He hesitated briefly before reaching out and picking up her limp, pale hand from where it rested across her stomach. It was so cold and heavy with the dead weight of profound sleep that he almost dropped it, and all at once he was fumbling for self-control.

But she was breathing, he reminded himself, watching the slow inflation-deflation of her lungs as her breast rose and dropped. He imagined the same steady, life-affirming relaxing-contracting of her heart.

He leaned over the bed, just enough to bring her frigid hand against his face, her little palm on the tense flesh of his cheek for the moment it took his brain to contrast it with the last time he'd held her hand—their hot, sweat damp fingers tangled tightly together, in the Inn at Alenhatan. Her face, now so still and expressionless, her lips pale and slack—a gut twisting negative of her usual expressive features. Whether she was laughing or grinning impishly, on the warpath or looking up at him in the summer moonlight with fear shining in her eyes, her face was always alight with emotions. She was rarely difficult to read. Except now her sweet face was utterly blank.

"What would you say right now…if you were awake?" he asked softly, only just loud enough for his own ears to pick it up. She couldn't hear him anyway, no matter how loud he said anything.

"You'd probably tell me to go back to bed and rest. You'd probably be more worried about me than…than about yourself."

He shifted her hand from his cheek, cupping it in both of his and staring down at it as though, for a moment, he couldn't decide if it was a flower or a spider that had crawled into his grip. He ran his thumbs over the delicate rise of her scraped knuckles.

"I know you wouldn't want to hear about it…but he's dead. I killed him. And…it doesn't make me feel better in the least about it than if I hadn't…so…I don't know what that says about me." He cleared his throat methodically. "I know it doesn't mean very much but…I…" He took a long, slow breath. "I'm…sorry. I can't even tell you…"

Was it even worth apologizing for the fight they'd had? At this point, did it matter anymore? Thinking about it, he had so many things to apologize for. So many things he could have…_should have_ done differently.

"Listen," he murmured, his eyes trained hard on the hand cradled in his. "I…I don't know how things would be…if you weren't around. I wouldn't be happy, I know that much." He sighed before continuing. "I don't…like talking to you when you can't hear me. Or say anything back. Can't you hear me?"

He flicked his eyes up to her relaxed face, a colder, paler version of the disarming softness of her sleeping expression the morning he'd woken up beside her in Totokanta and asked himself what the fuck he'd been thinking. An invisible rope tightened around his neck, and he swallowed hard against it. He was such a fool.

"Listen…I want you to know…" his voice gave out, and he cleared his throat again, more slowly than before, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "You…you know that I…"

Goddamnit. Of course she didn't know. Why—_how_ would she know how he felt? He hadn't even known it.

Or maybe he had. It was no excuse. But even so, he couldn't say it. Saying it to her when she couldn't hear seemed disgustingly selfish. A catharsis designed only to free himself of the burden of the captive emotions burning a hole through his worthless chicken heart.

"Nevermind…" he finished aloud, to no one. "I'll tell you about it…when I get back. Because I'm leaving. Not…not like, forever. Unless, you know, I die—sorry, I know you hate that. But…if I come back…if you've woken up by then…I _promise_…"

With eyes closed against the unexpected pain, he leaned down and pressed a kiss into her cold palm, closing her fingers gently around the invisible token. Averting his eyes from her bruised face, they came to rest on his worn scarlet headband, draped over his knee, which he'd snatched up earlier from his bedside table. Who knew why he hadn't just left it there. He didn't need it; he supposed he'd just grabbed it on reflex, without a thought as to why he was doing it.

Likewise, without a second thought, he looped the red headband around her limp wrist and tied it, snug but not tight, into a square knot. If she hadn't woken up by morning, at least he could prove he'd come to see her—whatever that was worth. Wherever his intention to finish what he'd started with the Church took him, at least he could remember that headband tied on her wrist: a promise to return.

A promise to change.

Maybe she wouldn't understand, but at least she would know he'd been there; hadn't run out without a thought of her as she was apt to assume.

Out the little window, the sky was beginning to lighten behind the powdery sift of snow. Clearly it was later, or earlier rather, than he'd thought. Perhaps he'd just been sitting here longer than it had felt. Through the haze of sedatives, time was just one of the things that felt a little different.

He stood, looking down on her for a moment longer, trying to absorb the idea that she was safe now, if not unscathed. Unscarred. The longer he considered it, the more the unquenched rage squirmed in his gut, negating the morphine-induced tranquility with every passing second and demanding blood.

Murdering the Bishop, the boy, the priests in the conclave that hadn't offed themselves by the time he'd been led to that room, even that mentally diseased fuck from Meverlenst...none of that had done a thing to quell the vicious bloodlust that had blossomed in those last moments of the General's life. Every member of the Church, as far as he was concerned, would shoulder the blame for the actions of those they put in power. None of them were worth saving. None of them could be _pardoned_.

They were the ones who had done _this_ to her. And even if he had to unleash Razor's Edge for all it truly was, if he had to break their necks with his bare hands, he would eradicate every Kimurak monk and priest from the face of the continent. One way or the other.

When Majic returned with the robe, his Master was already gone.


	20. The Star

**Chapter Twenty: The Star**

Her slow ascent from unconsciousness was punctuated with only a few moments of lucidity, sensations and sounds that merged with disjointed dreams, until finally a shaft of gray light chiseled between her eyelids and she came to, squinting against the groggy blur to focus on a hunched figure seated by the bed.

She came up on her elbows, muscles screaming in her neck and back at the movement, and was greeted with a gasping, familiar voice that had saved her from a waking nightmare only days before. She blinked once, twice before his smiling, bruised face came into focus.

"Majic!" Her voice was a dry gust of wind, weak and brittle, but not without a lilt of happiness. She threw her arms open with the invitation of an embrace and wound them around the boy, already sniffling with tears.

"I don't think I've ever been so happy to see anyone in my entire life," she warbled into his shoulder, pulling back enough to smile at him in the morning light, and she reached out to touch her cold fingertips to the line of stitches running under his eye. "Hey, you're all messed up…"

"You gave us a scare, Cleo. You've slept a little longer than the doctor expected. Can you see alright?"

"…yes, mostly," she blinked around a little. "Things are a little blurry…I guess. Is that a bad sign? Did I hit my head?" Her hands fluttered a little, aimlessly up to her chest and up around her forehead.

"You don't remember? _Yes_…you did," Majic reached out, his fingers grazing her temple lightly. "Right here. Does it hurt?"

"Not really," she admitted, blinking rapidly again, scrunching up her eyebrows. "I can feel it a little... Where's Reiki?"

"We left him with Stephanie and Tim for a bit. We didn't know what to expect when we came here…"

She nodded, her eyes travelling around the room before dropping to her own hands and arms, her knuckles scabbed and scraped raw from beating on the door, a bracelet of bruises around each wrist rising livid against the pallor of her skin. She could only imagine how her face looked, black and blue from more blows across the face than she'd ever taken in her life, and she didn't want to ask. Majic was doing a splendid job of keeping his eyes mostly averted, even as he was standing up, saying he would bring the doctor to check her out, now that she was awake, and she caught at his hand while the soft sound of distant thunder rumbled vaguely beyond the mullioned windows.

"No, wait—tell me…tell me what happened."

He gave her a face, a defiant tightening at the corner of his mouth before he sat back in the chair and looked her in the eye with one eyebrow drawn a little lower than the other. His arm was in a sling. "What do you want know?"

"Is he…" she swallowed. "Did…" She drew her brows low, annoyed that she could be so suddenly afraid of someone who wasn't even there.

"Master killed him, Cleo. He's dead," he looked away with a quick jerk, towards the window. "Don't ask anymore about that, okay?"

After a long, painful silence, she pressed on, unnerved and her throat curdling around a lump of anxiety. "Majic…where's Orphen?"

The boy's eyebrows drew a little lower in what almost seemed to be anger, a rare emotion to find on his usually good-humored countenance, and he kept his gaze on the window. "He's gone."

She held her breath, her heart trembling in her throat. "Gone? Wuh…what do you mean _gone_?"

"I mean gone," he practically snapped. "He left with the militia a few days ago. Apparently, they asked for his help driving the Church out of Taflem, and…" at this he gave a little shrug. "He felt strongly about fighting against them."

"He's fighting…?"

"Yes. The parliament declared open war against the Church once the Tower's messengers arrived in, well, whatever is left of Meverlenst…they teleported out after the barrier dropped. They've already been fighting for days outside, but the reinforcements from the Imperial Army haven't arrived yet."

Suddenly her legs were swinging over the edge of the bed and tentatively reaching for the floor, and Majic jumped up, holding his hands out to bar her from progress.

"Cleo—no, _come on_, at least let me go get the doctor to look at you first!"

She slipped under his tentative blockade and pattered weavingly to the narrow arched window, dragging her IV cart behind her with the glass fluid ampoules twinkling against each other and pressing her palms against the windowpane for support. Her breath clouded the glass close around her face as she gazed down from the height of the main nave of the Tower and over the fortress wall into the frosted panorama of the city. Smoke roiled from the windows of homes and blended with the whipping, snow-laced gales of wind that wheeled between her eyes and the hellscape of the burned out shell of Taflem. Even in the outer cloister below lay the slain corpses of militia sorcerers and Kimurak monks, lying with their bloodstains burned into the snow around them, their robes and armor rusted with dark blood and dirty ice. In the distance, what she'd thought was thunder before, was the sound of burning projectiles taking down walls and structures; the cream and brown Tudor buildings that made up the city were half blackened, burning or crumbling all the way to the horizon.

"I could have stopped this," she wheezed. "Majic…if…if they'd just…killed me like they wanted and left the continent, none of these people would be dead right now. But…juh…just because of _me_…"

Standing, he gave her a dubious look, approaching the window where she was leaning her forehead against the glass, staring down at the war torn vista. "There's no way to know what would have happened. These people are murderers, cold-blooded, brainwashing vultures, preying on the ignorance and fear of the masses. Everything my mother said about them is truer than I could have ever imagined. And it's _not_ just because of you, you know that. Do you have any idea how many _bodies_ we found? Girls just like you, poisoned, piled up dead like trash ready to be _burned_. We had to dig through them _looking for you_. Letting them get away with their crimes…might have been the easier thing to do, but not the right one."

She didn't look away, her gaze still locked on the ruined landscape. "But why did he go…it just doesn't…"

Majic sighed, and when he spoke, there was a bitter curl in his usually sweet voice. "They offered him a deal. They asked him to return to the conservatory, to lecture, if you can believe it. In exchange, we'll have the full protection of the Tower as long as he is allied with them during this conflict with the Church….This…_could_ be the beginning of the next Great War."

Her teary eyes turned back to him briefly. "Why do you sound so angry?"

"Aren't you? He _shouldn't_ be out there right now. When he left he wasn't in good shape, but he wouldn't listen, of course. I guess the real reason was that he probably couldn't stand waiting around here for you to wake up. Master's always been better at taking out his anger instead of, I don't know, dealing with it." He sighed again, more heavily this time, showing his exhaustion. "I just think he shouldn't have gone…he should have at least waited…"

"If I'd just died, they'd all still be here. And if he dies out there, then him too…" she whispered miserably. "You…you shouldn't have saved me."

His hands settled on her shoulders, easing her back from the window. "Cleo, are you saying that…because of…what happened to you?"

When she looked back at him tearfully, his expression told her he wished he hadn't said that.

"I don't know," she sniffed. "What do you mean?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably, his face seeming to darken a shade as he avoided her gaze again, as before. "I shouldn't have said anything…I probably shouldn't talk about it. But Master told me…w-what…what that man _did_ to you."

Cleo blanched, going cold, the chill of dread leaching up from the marble title through her bare feet and up her legs, climbing from cell to cell, capillary action, under it was filling her lungs like a frigid fluid. "Wuh…how did…what did he say he did?"

Now his face was decidedly flushed in palpable fury and embarrassment, his averted eyes suddenly shining with tears as he opened his mouth to reply but uttered nothing. He didn't have to say any more than that, and she flushed, going almost dizzy with her emotions going from cold to hot so quickly.

"_No_—Majic he's wrong, he…he didn't! He wuh…he would have, I won't deny it." She wrapped her arms around herself tightly for reassurance, to curb the tight trembling that had blossomed in her limbs at the subject, and her voice dropped to a scratchy whisper. "He almost _did_, but… I heard your voice. And…I screamed. I just screamed. Because…I couldn't think of what else to do anymore… and then the door. He got distracted away. He didn't, Majic, but he would have—" Tears were rolling down her face now, her shoulders shaking with the effort it took to hold back the sobs before she bowed forward, bringing her quaking hands to cover her face as she cried openly. "He _would have!"_

He stepped forward, the tears escaping down his face as he embraced her and she glommed onto him, trembling and sobbing for long minutes before his attempts at comfort began to calm her down, and he slowly led her back to her bed and pulled the covers over her bare legs before handing her a glass of water from the bedside table.

"He lied, then. He must have said it to distract, or upset him..." Majic sniffed a little, keeping his voice low and one arm still around her shoulders. "…but I guess it just doesn't matter now. Whatever he said…for whatever reason…Orphen killed him for it. You don't have to give it another thought, if you can."

Cleo wiped at her nose absently with the back of her scraped up hand, looking up briefly at Majic's rare choice to refer to his Master by name. "Is he okay?"

"Not really. Like I told you, he was pretty badly injured. Even sorcerous healing couldn't help him; they had to sew him up before the spell would start to take." He knew that didn't really answer her question, she hadn't meant it in the physical sense. But he just didn't know what else to say, really.

She processed that information despondently. "He must be furious at me."

Majic's shoulders jerked slightly against her with a soft breath of a laugh. "Oh, he's furious all right, but not at you. You have to stop taking the blame for this, you couldn't have helped anything that's happened. He seemed more upset at himself, as usual, for not being able—"

"Pfft," she interrupted. "You don't have to tell me that one. Orphen absorbs blame. I think he just constantly needs to be angry at something, even if it has to be himself."

His eyebrows rose up for a moment. "You might be right about that. But…even so, in this case…I think whatever that man said to him…it just…pushed him over the edge for a minute."

She looked up, inspecting his face. "Is that why you didn't want to talk about it? What did he…do?"

Majic looked vacant, not responding for a long moment. "I don't want to tell you. You don't want to hear it, and…I don't want to say it. I'm already having nightmares about…what happened. I…I don't really blame Master for it…but it's hard not to—I don't know—be a little afraid of someone who can do something like that."

"Majic, don't be stupid," she sniffed. "There's no reason to be afraid of Orphen. He has no social graces whatsoever, and he's reckless as all hell…but he would never _do_ anything to you…to either of us. He talks pretty big sometimes, but—"

"Cleo. He made that man cut out his own heart."

He blurted it out. Just _blurted_ it. Like he couldn't keep it inside his head a moment longer and it just escaped at her contrary comments to contradict her.

She started at him appraisingly, trying to determine how much he was exaggerating, and from his downcast eyes and buckled brow, he didn't seem to be. "He…_made_ him? _How_ could he _make_ someone do something like that?"

"It was sorcery," he said flatly. "It seems Master knows a lot of magic he doesn't use or talk about. Something called Razor's Edge."

"Oh, I've…" she blinked rapidly as though trying to get past that statement. "I think Hartia said something before…" She wiped at her eyes again, turning to gaze out the window and the pale swirl of blowing snow for a few silent minutes. "But Majic. That bastard deserved it."

"…I know. I'm not contesting that." They sat in silence a long time, Majic with his arm around her frail, hunched shoulders. They'd come a long way from his refracting light to peep on her bathing, her threatening his life and Majic blushing himself into submission.

"I'll have to tell Orphen…that that man was lying to him. Probably just to piss him off, I guess. I'm sure that would have upset him." She was trying to sound casual. Brave. Majic guessed she must not have been able to tell just how much her voice shook.

"I think it did more than that."

"What's _that_ mean?"

"I've just…" he shrugged. "Usually Master just plays around with opponents. He rarely uses much force or energy in fighting them. He's always telling me to conserve my power; only to use as much as is warranted, you know, in case I really need it later. But…I don't know. Since you've been gone, he hasn't been doing that. He's been running himself ragged, hasn't been very focused. Like he's losing it."

"What are you going on about?" she muttered cooly, her voice still raw and tremulous, "Why would_—_"

Majic cut her off with an annoyed glare, his mouth tightening at the corners again, a hard sigh flooding out of him. It was the same story with Cleo as it was with Orphen. Obstinate to the end. Blind and unwilling to move forward, or maybe just afraid. Who really knew what kind of things had been said in private for everything to still be so hopelessly tangled between them. With this kind of resolute denial on both ends, it was nothing short of amazing they'd gotten anywhere at all.

"Because he loves you, Cleo." Funny, he almost said 'stupid' at the end instead of her name. Why was he always the one bearing this _same_ news back and forth?

He expected the same sort of explosion in the manner Orphen had reacted upon hearing the same thing; but instead she turned back to the window, inclining her head forward towards her knees before replying with fatigue in her voice. "Did _he_ tell you that?"

"…no. _I_ told him that."

"Yeah?" She ran the fan of her fingertips along the bandages that crossed over her chest, limiting the movement of her dislocated shoulder. She didn't even bother asking how he may have come to that ridiculous conclusion. "Did he kick your ass?"

"No, actually. He did get angry, that much is obvious. But…I don't know. You know Master, sometimes it's the things he doesn't say that make it easy to understand what he means."

She sighed, drawing her knees up a little closer to her chest. "I never know what he means."

Reaching over, he tugged softly on the red headband he'd found tied around her wrist when he'd returned to Cleo's sickroom days before. Orphen had already vacated the premises, and he'd had to track him down in the corridors for an explanation. He'd already been on his way to speak to the Tower elders, despite the hour and that he was only half-coherent, half-naked, and looking remarkably like a walking organ donor. He'd tracked him down and cornered him in the turn in the hallway, forcing a robe on him and demanding to know just what the fuck he was going to do now. If he'd been more upset at the idea of his leaving without giving himself time to recover, or at the prospect of his not waiting for Cleo's condition to improve, it hadn't occurred to him at the time. But either way, he was angry, and he didn't try to hide it.

Orphen had laughed at his apprentice's choice of language, saying he was a bad influence on him. And Majic had half-agreed with that, bitterly remarking that he was likely to end up as reckless as him if he wasn't careful.

And then he'd said he was right. Majic was right. But even so. He couldn't sit around. He had to do something. If he didn't, he'd likely take his rage out where it didn't belong. He'd spent his whole life taking out bitterness on the wrong people, reacting with anger to everything, even feelings that didn't warrant it. Because he was messed up in the head, if he'd never noticed.

Half-intrigued with the candor that seemed to have been instilled in him when drugged out of his mind, Majic said he _had_ noticed a bit. And Orphen had laughed again, self-consciously, looking away down the corridor where he'd come from.

Yes, well, he'd said. He was still going. But that he'd come back.

And Majic, annoyed and emboldened by the rare instance of open honesty, had asked what he was supposed to tell her when she woke up.

From the way his eyes had flashed away, he obviously didn't have any idea. All he'd said was not to ask him that right now, which wouldn't have been much of an answer from anyone else. But from Orphen, it said everything. He hadn't sloughed it off, or asked "tell who what".

Like he'd told Cleo, sometimes it was the things Orphen _didn't_ say that spoke for him. It was the same for his red bandana, tied around her wrist like a flag.

If he knew his Master at all, he didn't quite trust himself to say the right thing as it was.

Tugging on the red cloth, Majic half-smiled as Cleo looked down at it as though she hadn't even noticed it, and he asked her, "Do you know what he means by _this_?"

She opened her mouth to reply, lifting her eyes just as there was a quick knock on the door before it creaked open. A familiar figure stood hesitantly in the doorway, obviously, from the expression on her face, expecting very little in the ways of welcome.

Cleo wasn't sure if she should be glad to see her or not. "Leticia?"

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Orphen had thought he'd read that being in love was supposed to inspire a man to discover a hidden shred of nobility, and instead, it seemed that his having those feelings had only unburied a demon. A fully blossomed Shade of Hell whose thirst for Kimurak blood, much to his growing concern, could not be satiated with the usual simple methods of murder and vengeance. The steaming bubble of blood foaming around the hilt of a blade, the gratifying wet slip of flesh parting or the mental clench of a spell striking center; a blossom of ice or fire charring skin and bone, a spear of light or a fork of lightning blazing along nerve endings: it was a satisfaction that was all too short lived.

Because no matter how many of them he killed, he couldn't undo what they had done. To all of those dead girls piled in the cellar furnace chamber, those families burned alive in the Meverlenst inferno, to the entire population of the Tower. The entire goddamn continent was a victim of their zealous atrocities, and though it seemed he usually wouldn't give a fuck, it was all seizing up in his head, conglomerating into a single cause. It wasn't just what they'd put him through, not anymore.

And most of all, their deaths couldn't undo what had been done to _her_. No matter how many he killed, he couldn't take that back.

Was this avenging angel named Krylancelo, long sleeping Successor of Razor's Edge back from the symbolic dead; or Orphen, the cold blooded executioner that was hungry for this twisted twin of justice? Sometimes it really did seem as though he'd lived two separate lives as two different people, and the more they overlapped, the more those two people were forced to grudgingly look each other in the eye and admit he was really just _one monster_ that went by many names. Like the General had said, just like the Devil.

Krylancelo. Little Brother. Orphen. Master.

Successor. Avenger. Betrayer. Murderer. Teacher. Lover. Maybe it was something he'd never completely reconcile. Just having all those titles was enough to show how disjointed he had become with reality.

And now he'd earned himself another title. The militia boys, they were calling him "sir", and when the Kimurak line had buckled and their smoldering trenches had turned up empty, they'd thanked him. Congratulated him. Probably because their real Commander had died on the first day, fallen victim to an unfortunate incident with a bayonet and a misfired Spire of the Sun. The militia itself was green, mostly comprised of fresh faced, close-cropped Tower post-grads with a few notable exceptions; they'd never fought a real battle. There hadn't been so much as a skirmish for more than eighty years. They'd only trained, gone through drills, fired spells at dummies and each other, never had taken a life with the sorcery they'd spent their whole lives mastering. All those little faces, some seeming far younger than Majic, all of them with the same look of determined apprehension during battle and haunted regret at night hunkered into hastily created camps, shivering in the frigid air with their shaking breath clouding around their faces.

The little sleep he'd garnered had been fitful and filled with vivid dreams and of course, he'd dreamed of her. Of Cleo. Just random things, memories, sporadic bizarre timeless moments that might have never even happened, but nonetheless, he'd wake in startling pain; his ire recharged. And if he'd feared he wouldn't return from that battlefield, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he'd lost count of how many of the bastards he'd taken with him.

At least he'd have the pride in knowing he hadn't just sat impotently by, waiting for her to wake up while others outside took care of the big war thing that he had set in motion. That he'd done the best thing he could. And if he couldn't make it right, at least he'd die making that effort.

God only knew there were about a million things he could have done differently in his life.

It had been days of that decidedly fatalist mentality before the Church's advance finally fractured and they retreated from Taflem to head north to Kimurak, turning tail to head for their ancestral Monastery a few hundred men lighter than they had come. They would regroup. Reform. Reinforce their armaments, and return. It was the Sand War all over again, but now the latest catharsis of the last 100 years of latent hostility was under the guise of the possession of the Tenjin relic they called the Worldstone, or at least what was left of it, to realize their ultimate vision now that their frail political bonds had been unquestionably severed by the Church's reprehensible betrayal of both their once-allies, and their visionary leaders martyred for the cause. If studies of history repeating could be trusted, they wouldn't rest until their trebuchets had razed the city to the ground and the Tower burned like a hollowed out beacon of caution to the rest of the savage population of the Continent.

The Tower messengers sent to Meverlenst had returned to the garrison encampment with news of outrage and upheaval. With the governmental triumvirate compromised, the Prime Minister of Meverlenst would assume all executive power, his first call to action a unanimous parliamentary order declaring a war of retaliation upon the Kimurak Church, despite that the late Bishop and the Heretic General of the Kimurak Army had already fallen to a heretofore uncredited hand. The Imperial Army of Meverlenst would set forth on a tireless march North to reinforce and join the forces sent by the Tower, but it would take days for them to arrive, and indeed, the Church had retreated before their allies had crested the snowy hills into Taflem.

As was the usual song and dance, from the ashes of fallen leaders had risen others, and the Church's forces had dealt a demoralizing blow to the little prepared Tower Militia before they'd ultimately been driven back. Casualties on both sides were estimated already in the hundreds; devastating for an opening battle to what may have proved a lengthy conflict indeed.

But as the militia boys crunched through the snowy main gates of the Tower, their popularly appointed leader drug numbly behind them all the way to the grand foyer entrance where relieved greetings rang out and embraces tangled every available empty space in the great hall, and before any of them could begin trying to introduce him to anyone else, he slipped soundlessly into the side newel and up the spiraling stairs towards the medical wing. Despite all the clamor about war, avoiding the inevitable meeting with the Elders was his main interest.

The infirmary was packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, nurses were hollering for space, newly laden gurneys clacking across the tile as he rounded the corner to the Critical Care Ward, to Room 42 where he'd last seen Cleo laying inert under low burning gaslights, looking so tiny and pale and so…beautiful…even as bruised and bandaged as she'd been.

Somehow, it was hard to believe he'd ever been able to convince himself otherwise. And thinking about that hurt more than he wanted to acknowledge.

It was that image that had fueled painful dreams about her for the past days, half-sleeping standing up against the wall of a frozen trench or dozing off propped up against the support pillar of a canvas tent. His first priority upon returning to the Tower was to alleviate himself of that mental picture that had plagued him, taunted him, whispered in his ear that he should have stayed and waited. And looking through the view-window set into the door of that same Room 42, it was apparent that such would not be as easy as he'd planned…but then, when had anything been that?

Right. Never.

Inside the room was a wounded militia soldier, half-wrapped in blood spotted gauze while the nurse was up on her toes hanging an upside down bottle of fluid from the IV cart above him.

Fuck. Had they moved her? Had she awoken? Or something worse? He reached for the knob with his heart squirming in his throat, and jerked back when a hand fell on his shoulder from behind him.

"Sir! The elders are asking to see you!"

"What, _right_ now?" He scowled, trying to mask his breathless surprise. It was one of the militia captains; tall, gangly kid with closely shorn copper hair and a billion freckles. Couldn't remember his name, though. Thompson? Thomas? Tomlinson? T-something, for sure. "Can't it wait? I'd like to get cleaned up—"

The kid looked conflicted. "You want the elders to wait? S-Sir, they _are_ really expecting me to bring you back…"

"Tell them you couldn't find me." He wanted to add '_and stop calling me sir'_. But he didn't. For some reason.

"But this is _where_ they told me to find you."

He sighed. "Where is that?"

The T-something kid's eyes flashed to the room number on the door behind him. "Room 42 of the Critical Ward in the Medical Wing, sir," he said slowly, as though it were obvious.

Which, he guessed, it was. And a little more specific than he'd expected. Interesting. Or maybe it wasn't interesting, and he was just exhausted. Either way, he scowled harder at the kid and watched him shift a little uncomfortably. "And who exactly said that?"

"Master Macready, sir."

Ah, of course. Leticia had a peculiar, circuitous way of dangling carrots to get what she wanted from him, and always had.

He leaned his head back, his eyes slipping closed briefly as he did so. Boy, he had a fucking headache. "Fine."

The kid visibly relaxed. Actually, he wasn't really a kid, now that he thought about it. He just had developed a funny habit of thinking of anyone younger than him as a kid. Hell, Hartia was older than him, and if he hadn't known him as well as he did, he probably would've thought of him as a kid too.

T-something wove a hand out in front of him, expecting him to lead the way apparently. Orphen gave another exhausted sigh before pushing off the wall and heading back down the white corridor with the captain in tow, the heavy clank of battle greaves echoing along the hushed passageway of the Ward. They passed back through the double doors and along the infirmary hallways with the bleary light of day spilling in, and he was distracted enough that he nearly missed the familiar little blonde head poked out from an open doorway, looking down the hallway in the opposite direction as he was approaching. He hesitated a moment until another familiar blonde peeked out of the doorway as well, looked in his direction, and gave a relieved grin over at his Master.

"There you are!" Majic beamed, and the girl swung around, her hands coming up off the doorsill and up against her beating heart in surprise when her eyes landed on his—and they both froze up entirely.

Well, this was what he'd wanted. To relieve himself of that terrible image of her, so still and pale—here she was, alive and alert, with color in her face and all cleaned up. She was wrapped in a draping white robe cinched tight around her waist and little white buttoned slippers, and yet at this crucial moment, all he could do was look at her; his tongue stuck firmly in his jaw.

And it all reminded him somehow of their entire relationship. Just staring at each other, dumbly, while the world bustled and moved around them. Everything else moving and progressing forward, except for them. They just stood, unmoving, maybe afraid to take the step forward into the moment where nothing could be turned back. The moment where the future would be decided.

But already, it was too late to go back to how everything had been before. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. _He_ had changed. He couldn't go back to the time before he'd realized what he'd been denying. Couldn't go back to the time when he didn't know that he loved her, as bossy and crazy and ultimately unreasonable as she could be. Who could really say why he loved her? He just…did, somehow. Why does anybody love who they love? Why does anybody do anything?

And besides, maybe he didn't _want_ to go back to all that.

He watched a tear drop down her cheek, still lightly bruised beneath her left eye, and he answered Majic.

"Yeah," he called lamely, not looking away from her. "Here I am."

Finally she jumped to motion, running the distance that stood between him and that open door, her slippered feet tapping the shining white tile, and throwing her arms around him in a crushing embrace that, before he could return or even enjoy it, broke away as she hauled back and slugged him hard in the chest with a balled up fist.

"You _bastard_!" she sobbed, throwing her arms back around his neck while he wheezed, in surprise more than pain. "Don't _ever_ do that to me again! How could you _leave_ before I could even see you? This whole time I didn't know if you were _dead_ or—"

"I _did_ come to see you," he protested feebly. He was having a hard time coming up with a good defense for that. He was so tired, and the combination of finally having her in his arms and half-arguing with her as though none of this had happened was all a little much to take in stride. He just closed his aching arms around her back, returning her embrace without the expected hesitation. Suddenly everything else had vanished but her.

"I know you did," she sniffed finally, her words muffled against his collarbone. "Majic told me."

"You're…okay?" His hand came up to tentatively touch her hair.

"Yes…I'm…I'm okay…Oh!" Suddenly she pulled back again, so fast he tensed up to prepare for another blow that he figured he probably deserved one way or another, but she just looked up at him, her eyes the color of the sky and her eyelashes spiked wet from her tears. "_Why_ didn't you tell me?!"

He couldn't keep up. He must've been more tired than he'd originally surmised. "Tell you what?"

"My magic, about my magic. You said I couldn't!"

He blinked at her. "Your…magic? What do you mean _your_ magic?"

"Azalea told me. She felt it, she thought all along I could but you said I couldn't and I believed you! But I unlocked a door, and yesterday I did it again so why—"

"You unlocked—" That entire sentence hadn't made any to him sense at all.

"You know_: I invite thee, gate of origin_?" she said irritably, as though he was playing dumb on purpose. "That's how I got out of my... Are you saying you _really_ didn't know?" There were still tears on her face, even as she'd moved on to being annoyed with him. Typical Cleo.

He stared down at her. "Are you…you're serious?"

"You think I'm joking?"

"Well…no, but…" He let her go to tug off his glove, pulling at it impatiently until it slipped free and he reached up under her hair to her exposed neck, concentrating and staring up vacantly at the ceiling, his palm pressed against the steady pulse at her jugular, and felt only relief that her heartbeat was so much stronger than the last time he'd…

Oh. Wait. _Oh_. But _under_ that…

That…hadn't _always_ been there, had it? That faint, almost subliminal tremble of electricity, like a static shock. Like the buzzing energy they kept harnessed in the coal laden hills around Sun Lake, powering the city with electric light and power instead of gas.

It was tiny, just an infinitesimal flutter. Undeveloped and probably a propensity for white spells. But it was there and how he could have missed it before was a goddamn embarrassment.

At his averted eyes and furrowed brow, she frowned impatiently, still clinging to him. "Well?"

"Wuh…well…"

The answer was actually fairly obvious. He'd spent the better part of the last two years going to great lengths not to touch her even the least little bit. And whenever he had, he'd been very careful not to focus on it. On her, or how she felt. He'd focused on ending the contact as soon as possible, and not giving it another thought. And when he finally had touched her, _really_ touched her, the last thing he would have noticed was that vague shimmer of latent power. He'd been far too focused on other feelings that touch had awoken in him…and had somehow, over and over, missed it completely.

How humiliating.

He looked back up at her, perplexed, and she gave him the tiniest hint of a smile while a voice behind him was uncomfortably clearing its throat.

"…I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but…the elders?"

He flinched back, looking over at the T-something redheaded captain of the militia, who looked a little pink as he stood off to the side, nervously watching their awkward reunion. Orphen shot the kid a wilting glare for a moment before grabbing Cleo by her hand and towing her along with him, much to the surprise of both Cleo and the captain.

"Oh, sir…I don't think…"

"Save it," he snapped, listening to the soft patter of Cleo's feet as she trailed along behind him unprotestingly, her hand in his, but this time, it was holding him back. "If it was Master _Macready_ who sent you, she has a few things to explain to _both_ of us."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

The meeting with the elders extended nearly to the evening.

The panel had changed since his last true encounter with them, which wasn't surprising since nearly the entire former council had resigned once their cover-up of the disaster involving Azalea Kettoshi and her self-experimentation with arcane relics that produced the abomination called Bloody August had been brought to light. After the death of Childman and Azalea's restoration, new elders had been appointed by the few that had remained; and now the circle of authority held more familiar faces. Not only Leticia Macready, the Tower Inquisitor and his erstwhile big sister, but professors and lecturers he remembered from not so long ago, and of course, Korgon Fundracht, an old mentor of his and Hartia's. One of the only people on the scene of Komikron's death, and a complete sonofabitch.

Familiarity did not always breed trust. In fact, quite the opposite. It was evident he would only ever be able to trust the elders of the Tower just so much, which was saying nothing new or surprising.

But regardless of their acquaintance, he hadn't stooped to the level of falling at their feet for favors. The arrangement he'd agreed on during his brief meeting with them days before had said nothing of having to report back to them. Simply that grudges could hold no water in times of war, and they were ready to deal on the terms of his finally realigning with them in this time of struggle and great need. He hadn't disagreed with that.

And they hadn't wanted a report, exactly. Instead, they'd wanted to make arrangements for him. Assign him quarters and a lecture hall. Discuss his impression of the Church's battle capabilities and the shape of the Taflem Militia for combat. And, more surprisingly, to invite his companion Miss Everlasting to begin study at the Tower. Despite that she would be older than other late-beginner students. In fact, if she had no objections, they suggested that perhaps once she'd trained safely past the explosion stage, he would be interested in tutoring her privately to help supplement her progress and make up for some lost time, as they understood he already had one functioning apprentice. They would even send official word to the manor in Totokanta. He could imagine he had Leticia to thank for those contributions, as well as their lack of any comment on Cleo's unasked for presence at their audience.

Certainly, just the idea had earned quite a smirk from him, and from her seat at his shoulder, a distinct grumble from Cleo; even as she was clasping his hand covertly under the edge of the long, polished table. Under her breath, she'd hissed up at him in a voice just loud enough for him to hear, _"I __**will not**__ call you Master, if that's what you're thinking."_

And even as the elders continued speaking, he'd nearly laughed at that.

For his part of it, he'd had quite a number of criticisms on his end. The Militia had extensive training and no experience whatsoever. The lack of military conflict for the last several decades had atrophied any edge they might had truly had, and it was his opinion that regaining that edge was tantamount to strategizing battle plans. Most of the panel had agreed on this, and of course, that was where their request for him to lecture came in.

Things had dragged on as the General of the Imperial Army of Meverlenst had arrived at last after days on horseback, riding with the army north along the mountain range, too late to assist with the bloody task of driving the forces of Kimurak from Taflem, but in time to discuss what to expect in retaliation. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a full, white moustache, and he'd shaken Orphen's hand heartily at the elders' news of his invaluable contributions to the dawning war effort, to which he'd simply bitten his tongue and accepted the praise without much comment. By the time the sun was lowering behind the cloudy horizon, he'd been too exhausted to make any attempts at defiance, and he was glad to leave the details of it all to him once he'd reiterated what he could of the battle.

Of course, he'd made more than one snide attempt to demand an explanation for the actions of Leticia, or rather _Master Macready_, on the behalf of the Church, only to have Cleo tug firmly on his arm and whisper to please, just shut up. That she'd explain it all to him later. And grudgingly, and sort of amazingly even to himself, he'd eventually allowed the subject to be deterred away, even as he was squirming to get it out in the open, gazing pointedly up the table at his _big sister_ sitting silently along the panel, clearly trying not to make eye contact.

He was so tired.

The long walk back to the medical wing stretched into the descending twilight of the day, in the now silent and dim corridor with its yet unlit lamps standing dark along the walls and the long shadows cast through the row of narrow, lancet arch windows, turning dusky mauve then cobalt as they walked, silently hand in hand but neither mentioning anything at all until they approached the door to her medical room, where she was still to be monitored for another few days before she would be assigned more long term quarters.

When he reached to open the door for her, she turned to face him, letting his hand free for the first time in hours; an action that was accompanied by a curious twinge of remorse.

"I'm sorry for stopping you like that," she said, her gaze trained somewhere around his shoulder, not meeting his.

"I imagine you have a reason?" He kept his tone as low as he could, seeing as how his voice tended to carry rather effortlessly across distances, and despite the illusion of intimacy, all of the rooms were likely occupied by now.

She nodded. "Yes—Leticia…she came to see me a couple days ago. You know, to explain and to apologize…and…well, I just figured she'd been through the wringer enough as it was…and that you probably wouldn't have liked discussing all of it with…those people."

"I see. Well then?"

"As you might have guessed, the entire city was put under Silencing very suddenly," she began softly. "When the Church showed up to occupy the Tower, accusing them of attacking Meverlenst…and that…man," here she seized up, swallowing hard against visible apprehension that made his hands clench hard, "the General…he was some kind of traitor, a sorcerer…well, you know _that_…and I guess an attack like that, all encompassing…and from someone in Church robes, must have caught them by surprise."

"A bunch of silenced sorcerers with rifles in their faces. I can see how they had them there. So few of them undergo any physical training…" He kept his voice level. Snapping at her wasn't going to do any good at all. But hearing her even mention that depraved traitor fuck, the General who had torched his own city… The bastard certainly had had his own agenda beyond the Church's corrupt crusade for salvation. He half-wondered who'd been using who.

Cleo nodded, her eyes wandering around the hallway in seeming anxiety, determinedly not touching him. "They sealed most of the Tower's residents up in the dormitories, that's what Leticia told me. Only a few of them were allowed out for a few things, mostly women, and Leticia…they all volunteered her to convince them she was glad for their invasion. I guess she's rather gifted with vocal persuasion…"

"They didn't make her Inquisitor at such a young age for nothing," he agreed.

"She said she gained their trust by dropping my name, and that she knew where they could find me. She wanted to go alone, but of course, I suppose you can only trust a traitor so much…and they sent those guys with her…"

"Yeah, yeah—that right there, why would they be so interested in you?"

She seemed to slump a bit with her downcast eyes. "It's a long story. Because of my Father…"

"Ah. Stephanie was right. Some kind of scandal…"

Her eyes came up, a solemn pain shining there even in the dying light. "They killed him. I guess I've never talked about it with you. The Kimurak Church…they…_murdered_ my Father. And they certainly wouldn't let the name Everlasting slip by if it was offered up to them. All I know is that they wanted to kill me…to stop me from…" she shrugged shakily. "I don't know. From stopping them, I guess, as though I could."

He wanted to reach out to her; wanted to have his arms around her as they'd been earlier in the day; though it had been so briefly and in such company he hadn't been able to say any of the things he'd wanted to. He didn't know how to take that step from where they were now to that. So much for progress.

"She told them that she knew what they were after. That stone, whatever they called it. And how they could use me…or I guess maybe use _you_…to get it."

"It was Lai, wasn't it? Lai who told her where to find us. _Lai_ told her what they wanted and how they could get it…" He'd suspected the diviner was behind all the inside knowledge, it had come to him mid-battle that he'd had to have some role in all of it. Lai was the most naturally gifted and accurate prognosticator the Tower had seen for over a hundred years. But the bastard certainly hadn't made things any easier on him. Conveniently, Lai was rarely able to see the entire picture of anything.

She nodded again. "That's exactly what she said. And that they were lucky that Divination doesn't necessarily require incantations…and that silencing only negates incanted magic."

"Always nice to know how little choice you really have over the things you do…" he sighed. "She knew I'd come here if she threatened me to stay out of it. Lai knew what I'd do before even I did, when it came down to it."

"They were counting on you…with everyone unable to defend themselves or the city, and with their allies turned against them because of the Church's lies and their deep running influence in the Parliament…you coming to the Tower was the only thing they could hope for. And all the better, she thought, if they were expecting you. Once they got what they wanted from the stone, they likely would have done the same to the Tower as they had to Meverlenst. She…there was no way to know what they were going to do with me…"

"Lai's visions weren't able to save those girls," he said gravely. Lai's visions couldn't see everything. He wasn't goddamn omnipotent.

"But they saved _me_," she whispered. "…Azalea visited me once. She snuck out of the kitchen; they had her cooking…that's when she told me about, you know…that she thought I…" she sighed tiredly, "She said I must be the only person with any ability in the Tower that wasn't silenced. She said she'd come back but…she couldn't pull it off again. Instead, because she was cooking for them, according to Leticia, she slipped notes on my food tray…telling me not to eat anything…"

"How'd she know it was yours…the tray?"

Now Cleo looked about to cry. "That first note, she put it on _all_ of the trays, hidden under the cup. But later on…she knew it was mine because after a few days, I was the only one that was still alive."

"Jesus," he spat. "Didn't they _read_ it?"

"Maybe not in time…but if she hadn't they all probably would have been dead the first day. I think maybe they didn't eat, but figured the water was safe…"

He grunted. "It was the water that was..."

She nodded once more, her eyes dropping closed languidly. "Anyway…it just seemed like it would be better if _I_ told you. In the end, all Leticia wanted out of this was to bring you to the Tower to…you know. Save the day. She had no way of knowing what they were going to do with me…with any of those girls. Or what was going to happen. She wanted to apologize. She was _really_ crying."

"Well, her plans were a little shortsighted at that. But they did accomplish what she wanted…or what _they_ fucking wanted. I guess."

He shifted watching her lean her head to the side in descending exhaustion, her eyes still closed as her voice faded out. Somehow, he couldn't imagine Leticia crying. He hadn't seen her particularly emotional since, well, since the time he ended up in the Critical Ward during his trials with Caldor Isle. Leave it to Leticia to believe in him just a little too much.

"Listen…you…must be tired."

Cleo brought a hand up to her bruised temple, touching it lightly with her fingertips before agreeing. "Yeah…it's…been a weird day, hasn't it?"

"You shouldn't wear yourself out…"

"I'm okay…I've been up and about a few days now."

"Even so." Somehow, the whole conversation felt flesh crawlingly awkward. Neither had addressed any of the truly conversation worthy points that had been burning unanswered in their time apart. That, of course, and the glaring issue he would do anything if it meant they would never discuss it. He knew it was selfish, but he was a selfish person; and when it came to functionally and rationally discussing it with her without lashing out inappropriately, he had no faith in himself in that arena.

Something Stephanie had once said came to mind: _"You will never make a good husband."_ The comment hadn't bothered him…at the time.

"Orphen." At the sudden sound of her voice, he snapped back to reality with a subtle start. "Majic told me what you did to him. The General."

"Oh." He averted his face towards the line of darkening windows, casting now only a sapphire glow into the dark corridor. He had nothing else to say. He figured if he didn't react much, perhaps the inevitable subject wouldn't come up. God knew, he had no idea what to say, and figured his writhing anger would do nothing to aid the situation nor her feelings on it, only make it worse. He ruthlessly fought to tamp down the ugly emotions boiling in him like stormclouds.

"I wanted to thank you," she continued softly.

"Somehow it feels wrong to say you're welcome for something like that…"

After a moment of strained silence, her eyes turned up to him. "Why did you do all this?"

That grabbed his attention, despite his former plan to bore her out of the subject. "Do _what_ exactly?"

"Going back out to fight them. Majic told me all about it. You shouldn't have gone, you were in awful shape. All these people…" she sniffed. "There are so many people dead because…"

"Because of the Church. _Cleo_. Because that fucked cult needs to be wiped out of existence. I don't want you thinking this could have ended differently, without the conflict, without fighting…they ensured that when they burned down the capital, killed hundreds in cold blood as a way to substantiate their invasion of the Tower without retaliation from their allies. And all for what? Some fucking prediction from their spooky-ass gospels. They killed all those girls because their bullshit scripture warned that one of them would rise up against the Church. And those Kimurakist families just allowed it. Just fucking _allowed_ it. Can you fucking imagine? All of this is _long_ overdue, and someone has to make them pay for what they've done in the name of just trying to fulfill their fucking useless…" his voice faded off suddenly and he took a long, slow breath in and held it a moment before letting it out. "I just…I had to take it out on someone who deserved it. Or I probably would have taken it out on someone who didn't."

"Is that why?" she breathed. "That's why they…?"

Even in the dark, he could see her shaking. Clasping her hands together tight in front of her. And again, he wanted to reach for her. But more than ever, he was second guessing himself. The all consuming fury was already flooding back, watching her shake like that, clearly thinking back on what she wouldn't say out loud, and what he just couldn't ask about.

Would she even _want_ him to touch her right now?

"Majic also told me…what he said to you. Or…what he _said_ he…did." She took a shaking breath, and he wanted to scream already. He braced himself for a wave of white hot, nerve searing wrath to inundate him and short out all his reason.

"It's not true," she rasped. "I mean. He tried. He wuh…he would have. A second longer and he would have…but then…" With the blue glow of the darkening twilight on her face, a gleaming wet stripe dropped down her cheek. She was clenching her jaw, trying to hold in the sobs gathering behind that brave-faced floodgate. Then her head dropped forward and she wept into her cupped hands, smothering the wet hiccup with her palms, crying openly despite the front she'd attempted to put up at first.

She was denying it?

Orphen had to brace himself, keep the level and tone of his voice in check when he spoke. It was so easy to let his goddamn mouth run away without him. _ Don't snarl. Don't clench your teeth_. _Don't raise your voice. Don't fucking swear._ He wasn't angry at _her_. He was just…unbearably livid. At everything. At life. At the world. She didn't have to lie to spare him what he already felt.

"He said you were…calling for me."

Cleo's shoulders drew up on a long breath, and dropped in jerking, muted sobs. "That _lying_ sonofabitch. If I'd called for someone, how would he know it was you? You didn't tell him you're _Orphen_…did you?"

He blinked.

Well, actually…

He _hadn't_ introduced himself as Orphen.

That one, obvious, simple fact might as well have been cold water dropped on his blistering rage. He'd used the name he was sure he'd be familiar with. But if Cleo had cried out for anyone, she certainly wouldn't have been calling for Krylancelo Finrandi. Not by name, at least.

Orphen swallowed past the acid in his throat, left only with the desperate feeling of urgency she gave him when she cried. In the draining absence of the throbbing anger, he felt almost dizzy, like the ringing aftermath of a devastating migraine headache.

"You're…sure?" he said weakly. "He didn't…"

She shook her head, her hands still stifling her spilling cries that were edging towards hysterical. "You don't believe me?"

"Of course…Cleo…_please_ stop…" he said it so softly she might not even have heard, and he reached for one jerking, rounded shoulder almost without thinking, simply on the instinctual response to assuage her misery. At the timid brush of his extended hand, she collapsed forward against him, her hands still up covering her face for a long moment before she wound them around his neck and buried herself in him, disappearing beneath his enfolding arms.

He reeled, almost euphorically dizzy from the amazing sensation of all-pervading relief that trickled through him like medicine. She murmured something, high pitched and distorted by her wrenching grief. It sounded like his name. The one she called him, anyway.

Enclosed in his embrace, she was still shaking, her sniffling subdued by the cloth and leather of his clothes while he breathed in the clean scent of her hair, listening to her slowly pulling herself back together, holding onto him with tangible desperation. He waited long minutes of eventual silence before speaking softly, just a whisper into her hair. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

It was the strangest thing. Standing here with his arms closed tight around her, he could feel it. The spark of energy buzzing somewhere beyond her skin. How could he have ever missed it?

"He still deserved it…" she hissed tearfully into his neck. "He deserved _worse_. Even if he didn't…he _meant_ to. He _wanted_ to. And with everything else they did…he deserved _worse_. He hit me a lot…threw me down. Said a lot of things I couldn't understand… He ripped my clothes…" she suddenly trembled furiously, like a chill had hit her, and he tightened his arms around her as if he could pull her closer. "He was insane…because of that _stupid_ rock…"

"I know." He whispered, his palm on the silky back of her head, trailing his fingers gently down her hair. "I won't second guess what I did…"

They stood until the hallway had fallen entirely dark, and even after a nurse travelled by with the sparker to light the gaslamps, giving the embraced couple a disapproving glance as she passed by. He waited for her echoing footsteps to dwindle down the corridor before he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck, just under her ear, and she relaxed perceptibly against him, still softly seething and lost in the folds of his clothing.

"Please don't leave again," she whispered, turning her wet face to the side to speak. "If something happens…"

Typically, his first instinct was to protest, but he steadfastly swallowed that reaction. "Cleo…I _have_ to."

"Haven't you helped them _enough_?"

"If they need me to go, I'm going to have to go. In the meantime, it seems they… might need me here more. The students, even the grad scholars…they won't be worth anything in a fight with how they've been taught here under these fucking _brainless_ policies. Some of those Militia kids make Majic look like a seasoned warrior…"

"So they want you to teach _that_?"

He nodded vaguely.

"And will you?"

"…to be really honest with you, I don't see what other option I have at the moment." He said this with an almost nervous sounding breeze of a laugh that ruffled through her hair, and she looked up.

She tearfully gazed up at him in the new amber light.

"How strangely practical of you," she said, and slowly—hesitantly—rose up on her toes to kiss him with gentle, parted lips; a soft, salty kiss tasting of her tears that lasted only long enough for his eyes to drop closed, for him to lean forward just that little bit before she'd pulled away again, tucking her head against his shoulder.

"I missed you," she whispered. "I was so _scared_ that I'd never see you again."

"I'm fine," he breathed anxiously. Slowly but surely, they were approaching foreign conversational territory, and he was getting antsy. "Listen…I…I hate to bring it up," he began, taking in an uneasy breath. "About what you said…in Alenh—"

"I'm sorry!" her arms tightened in their yoke around his neck. "I'm so sorry I said that."

He'd hadn't quite expected that passionate response, and he blinked, disarmed entirely. Did she mean when she'd practically…just about told him she loved him? After all, that was what he wanted to talk about.

"…which part?"

"When I said I _hate_ you…" she said softly in her tear-pinched voice. "I don't hate you. You know I don't, right? Then they _shot_ you…I didn't know if you were dead… and the last thing I said to you was such an awful lie…I _don't_ hate you."

He nodded, his arms squeezing around her, one hand sweeping tenderly through her hair; and his heart was going to give out if it didn't calm the fuck down.

"Cleo…I. I don't hate you, either."

Goddamnit. Maybe he couldn't say it yet after all. Not yet. He'd have to work up to it. Practice a little.

He had time, right?

But from the way she looked up at him at that, her eyes and lashes wet and bright with what seemed to be astonishment, maybe she knew what he meant by that better than he could have hoped. She rose up on her toes once more, arms hooked around him, bringing her lips against his in the flame-lit dark and whispering against them in a breathy, tearful voice that, for the first time that night, was completely devoid of sorrow.

"Say that again…?"


	21. The Sun

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Sun**

What filled the lecture hall could only be described at a wordless and continuous murmur; a low, flat babble like rain falling on a street. One wouldn't really call it loud, just a fluid garble like a river of hushed voices. A hundred or so Tower students packed shoulder to shoulder at the tables, and from what Majic could discern from the top tier at the back of the room, they were all discussing what to expect from their yet unseen teacher of this new subject: Advanced Application of Incanted Magic. Judging from the news travelling around the Tower now that classes had resumed, even as the armies of Taflem and Meverlenst continued to skirmish outside of Kimurak to the dead north, Majic wasn't surprised that they were rather interested in meeting the purported hero who had released the seal on the Tower those weeks back; who had killed the deluded Bishop and the Hand of Kimurak; who had restored the beast known as Bloody August and walked away from it.

When the door banged open and in he stalked, that babble shrank to what felt like a curious or stunned silence. His dark figure all but stormed to the front desk and dropped a stack of books on it with a resounding slam, and he turned back to appraise his class with a look between annoyance and boredom. The silence stretched on. Obviously, they'd expected something a little different. Someone not a few months short of 23 years old, someone who didn't look for all the world like he'd rather burn down the Tower than be teaching at it.

"Alright," he said suddenly, his voice projecting impressively across the auditorium as it was known to do. From his vantage point, Majic could see a hundred sets of shoulders sit up a little straighter. "Let's get something right out in the open."

It was decidedly strange to see his usually rough-edged Master dressed so nicely, in a black dress shirt and black vest held snug with a pewter chain, dark slacks, dark shoes. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the shirt was undone at the collar. He wasn't wearing a tie, only his Tower pendant.

Okay. Maybe it wasn't so strange after all.

"This is a subject that has nothing to do with how much you know. It's how well you can _use_ what you know. I don't care if you can recite every alternate incantation for every spell in goddamn existence, it won't do you any good at all if you can't figure out how to use them to the best effect." He had his hands folded behind his back as he spoke, sounding more irritated than anything else, and the students exchanged a few scandalized smiles at his unfiltered language.

"If you can't taylor your knowledge to work at its best for _your use_, you have no business using sorcery on a battlefield. Not knowing your own strengths and preferences will not only endanger your own life, but everyone else relying on you. As you must know, there has been recent need of real combat for the first time in…a long time. I saw it myself; and I was disappointed as hell to see how little the Tower has allowed you to apply the skills they've taught you in practice. You're not always going to be standing still firing at rocks like a bunch of children, and if you've decided to take this class, you're ready to admit that and work on changing those habits. So, that said, do _any_ of you use alternate wording that differs from the default taught?"

After a moment of hesitation, a girl slowly raised her hand on the far left of the room, and Orphen pointed at her brusquely. "Yeah, _you_."

With a clear flush to her cheeks, the girl stood, a petite brunette no older than Majic in a standard issue third-class robe with a gleaming, recently-earned Tower pendant swinging around her neck. "Master, Tower standards dictate that the default incantations taught are chosen for efficiency's sake. The short spells are quickest to use."

"Maybe for efficiency, but not _effectiveness_. Using an incantation that's wrong for you will not only produce an inferior effect but also drain more energy than it should for the effect that's emitted. It creates a bad connection. Like using a sub-par metal for conducting electricity. By not knowing what is _optimal_ for _you_, you are throwing away undirected energy for a lesser result, even when speed is not an issue. So how about you _sit down_ if you're just going to try to contradict me instead of answer the question?"

The girl sat quickly and a quick titter ripped through the class. A few more hands went up, volunteering incantation variances they knew of, and Orphen started writing a few on the chalkboard. Pencils were scratching around him on parchment, and Majic relaxed a fraction, watching silently from the back of the class with the strange thought in his head that he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his Master's surprisingly perfect handwriting before.

Written on the board now were a few familiar phrases, and some completely foreign.

_Enter my arms, Nera._

_Amber shield from my fingertips._

_I withdraw thee, Shrew's Dance._

Majic wasn't there to learn as much as for support, but he found himself learning more about why Orphen taught him the way he did than he would have ever imagined. Watching him, it wasn't long before it was obvious that he would adapt to teaching a class at least as well as he'd adapted to teaching a single apprentice. If not better, since the constant distractions that impeded Majic's lessons would have trouble cropping up at the Tower in the same way as they had during their travels. Already Orphen was off on a tangent, explaining different methods of building invocations, and he'd written examples of certain types on the board. One was an imbedded command. One was Malkalvian. One was an operative assembly.

"It may sound redundant, the same crap you've heard since your first day here, I know. But sorcery cannot function without means. Your energy can only be funneled through a conduit to reach its ultimate effect; otherwise it's like a spark with nothing to burn. That conduit can be modified by changing the operatives in your incanting for a more streamlined connection, or by choosing a different type. You're all probably going to hate it, but the only way to figure out what works best individually is to do the legwork."

He went on about operatives and modifiers, potential energy, the Malkalvian and Kislevian clans stemming off the Dragon Families, and diagrammed out the parts of an example incantation in chalk that Majic found himself picking up his own pencil to copy down. Papers flipped around him, pencil lead scratched furiously. And so it went for the hour until the class was dismissed and the Master made his exit.

Majic stuck around a few minutes afterward, flipping casually through his unexpected amount of notes, to catch a few comments from the students he might relay to Orphen later, even as he was apt not to care in the least.

As seemed typical, the boys were more accepting, though aggravated at the amount of work the class seemed ready to heap on them, and their hands cramping from having to take so many damned notes. The girls crossed their arms, turned their noses to the sky and declared their displeasure with their teacher's abrasive manner, despite the familiar stars glowing in their young eyes while they said it. No one would find any of it funnier than Orphen would, that was to be certain. Cleo, however, was bound not to find it amusing whatsoever. Their arguments lately had taken on a different color and tone than ever before.

After all, it wasn't like he'd expected they would actually _stop_ fighting.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

When he woke, he was alone. Shifting around in the massive, four-posted galleon of a bed, half asleep and blinking, he reached out further to find nothing but an expanse of cold sheet, and sat up. One would think he'd be used to waking up alone, but for the past couple weeks he'd grown accustomed to something different, warmer, and decidedly preferable. He already knew he had trouble sleeping when she wasn't there next to him.

"Cleo?"

His mind was still slow with the residue of sleep, and he came up on his hands, peering around his dark quarters, which were incomparably nicer than his student lodgings from seven years past. The remnants of the fire glowed red under the wide stone mantle, a bed of livid burning rubies that illuminated the room just enough to discern the dark shapes of the furniture and walls. The armchair by the fireplace, the enormous wooden desk, the calico scatter of discarded clothing on the floor, and the washroom door, firmly closed with a thin line of candlelight fluttering in the space between the bottom of the door and the polished stone floor. What time was it? It felt almost like morning.

He stared at that shivering thread of light for a moment before reclining back, pulling the heavy, fur-lined covers up over his bare arms and closing his eyes again, breathing out on a long, exhausted sigh, settling into the silence and resuming the slow descent into sleep for long moments before a sound shook him awake.

The faraway sound of a single, subdued sob. Into hands or a washcloth or a towel. Then a sniff. And his legs were swinging over the side of the bed and carrying him to the door before he was even entirely conscious, tugging on his cotton pants on the way.

He stood quietly at the door until he heard it again, about a minute later, softer and wetter this time, but not soft enough that it didn't reach through the wall and strangle him the way it always seemed to, and in response, he tapped on the door with one knuckle.

"I…I'm in here…" she said on the other side, startled, her voice clearly strained.

"I know that, I can hear you." He said flatly. It was too late and he was too tired to fuck around. "What's going on?"

"N-nothing. Geez. I just…I'm just in here for a minute, okay?"

"Enough. What's wrong?"

"Nuh…nothing's _wrong_…"

He sighed, biting down on the contrary remark that was squirming at the tip of his tongue, letting a slow lungful of air out and leaning against the door before he spoke. Of course something was goddamn wrong.

"What did I_ do_?"

She forced a little tearful laugh. "Nothing…you didn't do anything. Really, Orphen…nothing's wrong."

"_Cleo_."

"I'm _fine_. Go back to bed. I'll be back in a minute."

"You want me to go back to sleep listening to you fucking cry?" He hadn't meant that to sound quite as hard-edged as it did, but shit. He'd gotten pretty good at editing himself on the fly, a few slips ups were to be expected. "And you call _me_ an asshole…"

"Nuh…no. I…I'm sorry…"

"Cleo. Open the door."

"What? No."

"Are you hurt?" He shook the doorknob in building annoyance. He'd already had quite enough.

"No!" An edge of distress was creeping into her tone, edging up his frustration level unreasonably. Maybe he was just tired, but he had a class in the morning. He wanted to go back to bed. With her. He wanted to be done with this part. She knew how much he hated it when she cried. He hated how it felt. She _knew_ that. Why did she continually subject him to that frantic, spine-stiffening desperation for her to stop?

"Well, are you _sick_?"

"…I don't think so…"

That was an interesting answer. "You don't think so?"

"No."

"Then what the _hell_ are you doing in there?" he snapped.

"Orphen, sheez, why the hell do you _care_?" she flared, her usual old defenses kicking in seamlessly. He leaned forward on the door, both arms braced on the wood, his anger reflex itching viciously.

"Oh, god_damn_it." he sighed, tipping his forehead forward against the door, eyes sliding closed.

It was only a few seconds before suddenly the lock clicked and the door opened, giving under his leaning arms and he had to jerk back to avoid falling through. When her candlelit face appeared in the open door, her mouth was set in a hard, grim line, a crumpled leaf of parchment gripped in one curled up hand.

"Shit, give me warning…" he exhaled before nodding tersely to the paper in her fist with a lift of his eyebrow. "What's that?"

"A letter," she said stiffly. "From my mother."

His skin prickled. Maybe he didn't want to know after all. "Your mother," he repeated.

"She's…commissioning a stagecoach to take me back to Totokanta."

He wanted to snatch that letter out of her fingers, but instead he tightened his grip on the doorframe to occupy his hands. "Of course she fucking is," he said shortly. "How long ago did you get that?"

"I got it this morning," Her shoulders were dropped forward, visible gooseflesh risen on her bare arms. "I…I couldn't sleep, thinking about it. I didn't want to tell you."

"So…instead you were going to just disappear back home without telling me?"

Cleo's eyes came up at the dangerous note of anger that had sparked in that question. "Of course not."

"Well, great, you were going to say goodbye before you took off?"

"I wasn't going to _take off_," she insisted, both volume and anger rising in her tone.

"But you are going to leave, aren't you? I'm sure it's been long enough since she sent it that your gold plated coach'll be here by morning, won't it, Princess?"

"Orphen, fucking let me talk. You're being a total _dick_."

"Okay, talk. You're going, aren't you? If you weren't, you wouldn't be locked in the goddamn bathroom tormenting yourself about what to do."

She scowled bitterly. "I…I don't know _what_ I'm going to do. But she doesn't want me _here_. Because of the fighting so close…and of course, she has things planned."

"Of course she does," he said again, a wounding sarcasm intensifying while he spoke, turning from the doorway. "Why wouldn't she? She needs to get you the hell away from me. She'll probably have all your wedding guests waiting for you when you climb out of the carriage. That's what she wants, isn't it? To marry you off?"

"I suppose that's her ultimate objective," she spat, folding up her arms in a defensive stance.

"Well, good for her. And good for you, too, if that's what you want." Now he was being unreasonable. He knew it.

"You _know_ that's not what I want!"

"Maybe it's better that you go. It won't be long before they ask me to go with the next dispatch to the front, anyway."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

"Bullshit! Why would you even say that to me? Is that some kind of threat?"

His head jerked back in her direction, a pointed glare blazing at her even from the shadows, the only light streaming from the wilting candle in the washroom. "What? Fuck. _No_, it's not a threat. Just a fact."

"You are _such_ a prick. You think I _want_ to go?" she hissed. "You think if it was up to me I'd want to leave? Wouldn't I have done it sooner than now?"

"Haven't you been threatening me from day one you were going to turn tail and go back home?"

"And weren't you the first to applaud that brilliant idea?"

Dammit. Ouch and dammit. Yeah, he had been. For all the wrong reasons, but he wasn't about to start on that with her. He had to fight against an intense irrationality that was simmering in the back of his mind, and threw her a pained look. "That was…then."

"Well I couldn't go through with it, could I? Even when I probably should have. And so you'd think I'd want to leave now, of all times? _Now_?"

His hands came up in a gesture of surrender and exasperation. "If you don't want to leave, don't fucking leave. She can't just choose your life for you, can she? Who gives a fuck what she wants for you, it's _your_ goddamn life, Cleo. Isn't it?" As usual, his vocabulary dwindled considerably the more she worked him up. "If you were locked away in there twisting yourself in knots about it, trying to figure out who's more important to make happy…it's you. It's fucking _you_. Not anybody else. It's not for anyone to decide. Even if the whole country's up in arms fighting around you. I can't make you stay, and she can't make you go, no matter how much it probably feels like she can."

She was staring at the floor now, her arms folded tight across her chest, one leg stuck out in a defiant stance; but when she spoke, she sounded once again like she was about to break down. "Do _you_ want me to stay?"

He nearly growled at her. "What? Of _course_ I do…"

Cleo looked up at him with a storm blazing in her eyes. "Why?"

He either wanted to laugh or break something, and all his muscles snapped tight. What the hell did she mean _why_? If he didn't want her around…all the things he went through to find her when they took her…EVERYTHING that had happened and everything since…didn't she know what he'd been through just to be here with her now? She _had_ to know. Hadn't he proved that to her? He often suspected she said things just to see how much he could take before he'd snap. The words he'd intended in response to that were _'Are you just saying that to piss me off?'_

Instead, what flew out of his mouth was something different. Part of him felt it coming out and wanted to reach out and catch it midair, stuff it back down his throat for a better time. But it was too late. Somehow he should have known it was going to happen this way. He was so goddamn predictable.

"_Why!_?" he sneered, blindly provoked. "Because I fucking _love_ you, that's _why_!" He said this with as much boiling frustration as a man could fit into his voice. And seriously. She couldn't have been any more surprised than he was. As usual, his mouth had a mind to get him into as much trouble as it could, and for a second, he thought his heart had stopped beating. He felt his skin go cold.

Oh God. Oh _fuck_. He wasn't ready to do this.

She was deathly silent, and he could feel her eyes locked on him, even in the dark. Somehow, from the silence it had brought on, one would think he'd insulted her so unthinkably she couldn't formulate an immediate reply. And…maybe he had. An image of Tistiny Everlasting's disgusted face flickered across his mind's eye, creased with the horrid prospect that some worthless, nobody piece of shit might accidentally fall in love with her daughter that was oh, far too good for the likes of him. Even at the time, he'd wanted to spit at her. Now he wanted to fall through the floor and was telling himself the same thing.

But it wasn't something he could take back. He couldn't tack any comment to the end of that to soften the meaning. That particular cat had unexpectedly been dumped out of the proverbial bag.

"Christ," he breathed anxiously in amendment, turning away and walking into the dark towards the bloody glow of the fading fire, suddenly violently queasy.

She didn't move from her spot, through her arms had dropped limply to her sides and she stood there in her little white silk slip, looking completely blank. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." Well, nothing else to say now.

"Orphen…"

"Cleo." He responded. He had nothing to save him. She had him now. Cornered. Checkmate.

She seemed to collect herself for a moment before continuing. "…Do you mean that?"

"I mean it," he said despondently, staring at the coals with arms crossed tight over his chest. "I didn't mean to _say_ it, but I mean it."

"You…didn't mean to say it?"

"Well…it just…I don't know. You don't say it either…"

"Because I don't want to feel like I'm holding a gun to your head. It was bad enough last time…"

He shrugged, unfolding his arms and hooking his thumbs in his empty side beltloops.

"You didn't say it then, either."

"I was…" She stopped and nodded, the sound of parchment crumpling in her hand sounded like crackling fire. "I know."

Her soft barefooted steps tapped on the icy stone floor and onto the braided rug in front of the fireplace, approaching him slowly to stand next to him, to stare at the sunset colored ghost of their once-roaring fire. With a jerk of her wrist, the ball of paper landed in the coals, slowly blistering and smoking, uncurling enough that he could see tangled, scrawling words of black ink cursive backlit by the orange glow of heat before it finally flickered into a soft, silent ball of flame and quickly dwindled to a black wisp of ash. While he watched it, her arms came around him from behind, her cold cheek pressed against his shoulder blade, and he started slightly at her sudden touch as though expecting retribution instead of affection.

"I wasn't trying to figure out how to leave without telling you, okay? I don't want to leave…I thought you would _know_ that."

He made no question or comment, only stood, wearing his tension and habitual reserve like an impenetrable suit of armor. It was such a sad thing to see him returning inexorably to his instinctive distrust, his kneejerk expectations of being used and rejected. "Orphen…"

"I don't know what I'm doing," he muttered fiercely, almost more to himself than to her. "Why am I _doing_ this?"

He felt her breath on his back when she responded, her arms tight around him. "Doing what?"

"_This_," he insisted uncomfortably, his eyes fastened on the fireplace, speaking so flat and soft he barely sounded like himself. The usual sharp edge that defined his unique, strangely beautiful voice had completely eroded away, leaving an exhausted husk. "You…and me. _Whatever_ this is. I don't know. I'm horrible at _this_. You're upset; I yell at you. I can't…there's something wrong with my brain."

"No, there isn't," she whispered.

His shoulders jerked under her cheek with a silent, self-depreciating snort. "I'm going to remind you that you said that."

"I love you."

Of course, hearing it should have made him happy. But no matter what she said, there _was_ something wrong with him. Why did finally hearing that so plainly inspire such dread? It wasn't as though he didn't know it. But regardless, he was gripped by a dizzying cocktail of relief and elation and crawling terror. With her ear pressed to his back, she heard him take in a long, slow breath and hold it for a moment, before he let out a tiny, bewildered laugh that sounded distinctly on the verge of tears. "_Why?_"

He asked it of her as though she'd said she wanted to swim with sharks; as if she'd just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Could you answer that question easily if I asked you the same thing?"

He seemed to slump a bit. She knew he couldn't. He could barely say _how_ he felt, let alone _why_ he felt that way. "No..." he sighed.

"Well, then, you know it's complicated. Why does anybody do anything? I guess I could pick it apart and get back to you on it…"

"No no, don't think about it too much…or you're bound to realize how little sense it makes. And that it's not going to work."

"Like you already have?" she asked sadly. "Besides. I already tried telling myself that a long time ago."

"What a fuckin' mess."

Now she breathed an anxious laugh, holding onto him tight while he stared at the fading coals, relaxing only a fraction when one of his hands came up from his belt to skirt reticently over hers before settling over it. How long they stood like that was unclear, that silent truce stretching on into the thin hours until the candle in the bathroom drowned itself, its flickering glow replaced by the vesper of impending daybreak that glowed golden between the separations in the heavy drapes.

Finally she spoke, a wisp of warm breath on his back. "Orphen…I'm cold."

Without a word, he turned, using their clasped hands to usher her back to bed where, under the weighty covers, he accepted her into his arms with a nervous reluctance as though acting against the warning of instinct. How quickly a single argument could stretch that stone wall of silence completely between them was almost uncanny, and it was with a touch of despair in her voice that she acknowledged it: the daunting task of trying to build on this unstable surface, this castle on wet sand. If every snag was going to be met with this predictable but heartbreaking whiplash response of accusations and anger, he was certainly right in his supposition that they were fighting a losing battle.

"What are we going to do?" She asked this in a stony voice that was bereft of any hope. She didn't mean about her mother's commissioned stagecoach; that much was obvious.

In the dark around them there was no answer, only a glut of things still left unsaid. Finally he turned towards her, tightening his embrace suddenly and pressing his cheek against the side of her neck, holding her against him in wordless contrition until the chill began to thaw and she relaxed into him, her fingers sliding up the nape of his neck and into his hair. He bent to drop an uneasy kiss on her cold, bare shoulder, then another on her collarbone, his warm breath chasing each kiss upward until he found her mouth and sealed his against it; a kiss deep and as possessive as always. And as was usual, everything that was wrong between them washed away in the press of flesh and lips and hands, like rain washing away dust. But just as her lips had warmed and opened to him, he drew back and paused cautiously in a manner that reminded her of a first kiss in a moonlit bed that felt like a thousand years past.

"You shouldn't…you know."

Cleo blinked up at him in the dark, already woozy. "I shouldn't…what?"

He hesitated again. He had such trouble saying that word, it was absurd. "…love me…"

"Are you setting me up to ask you why again so you can get mad at me, because it's supposed to be obvious why I shouldn't?"

"It is obvious…you _know_ why…you know what kind of…person I am…" This was so stupidly hard.

"Why is this coming up _now_?" Inevitably, she sounded frustrated.

"Why wouldn't it? We haven't talked about it."

"I don't want to hear it," she said. "Don't tell me why you think I shouldn't love you. It's _my_ choice, and it's too late for you to tell me that now. It's already done. If you _really_ wanted to warn me, you should have done something about it a year or two ago when you might have changed my mind. "

"Didn't I? I went out of my way to be as big an asshole as I could…"

"You did, didn't you?" she agreed lazily, running her fingers back through his hair and down the column of his neck. "Was that to make me hate you?"

Resisting a sudden shiver, he sighed. "No…Yes. Sort of."

"Well, for some reason, it didn't work. How long have I known you, anyway? They weren't all exactly your sunniest days. So then, tell me, if I'm obviously too much of a twit to figure you out for myself. What kind of person are you, exactly?"

He froze up again, biting back a derisive retort that was bound to only make things worse. It was hard to decide what to say. That he was a murderer? A complete fucking mental case? A total fuck up? That he'd ruthlessly slaughtered a hundred men in his rage over what they'd done to her? That he was going to be a possessive, insecure, temperamental nightmare of a lover? That he was a half-crazy, self-interested asshole that had fought tooth and nail against any sort of attachment to her as though it meant certain, agonizing death? Well. That one she probably already knew.

But the truth was, she didn't really know a damn thing about him. Not really. And did he want her to? Did it really matter?

Shit. Once again, he'd done this to himself. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut?

He'd spent his whole life regretting, fearing and being burdened by the past. By things that couldn't be changed. By things that haunted him while he slept. Murders, deaths, injustices that he stubbornly clung to, blaming them all on himself as only he could. But he hadn't had a nightmare for over a week, and he could only expect he had her to thank for it. If he really told her what kind of monster she was sharing a bed with…what would she say? He didn't know if he could handle watching her recoil from him in revulsion and shock. If he told her some of the things he'd done, would those horrors in his past begin to taint her as well? Would they wake her violently from her sleep? Maybe it was an irrational fear, but he was nothing if not a little high strung.

Her hands were on his face now, drawing it back down to hers for a kiss, and he could see her; a net of pale hair scattered around her face and over the pillows. The sun chose that moment to crest the distant horizon, a thin thread of cold winter sunlight falling through the curtains and over her face as she smiled up at him, her arms lifted up and his red headband still streaming from around one little wrist. She never had removed it, even after he'd returned. He would be the first to admit that his intuition in the area was woefully lacking, but even he knew that definitely meant something.

He began to construct a shaky reply, and she stopped him, settling back against the pillow and replacing her lips with the pads of her fingertips against his mouth.

"Don't answer," she amended softly, blinking her eyes beautifully against the sun. "When will you get it through your head that I _don't care _about that?"

He dropped his face into the pillow beside hers, exhaling wearily against her neck and curling his arms under her waist, pardoned from condemning himself and adoring her fiercely for it.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Never?"


	22. The World

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The World**

It was just a nickname, an awful one at that, but regardless, it had stuck.

Ratsbane.

Cleo thought it was horrid, and had said as much to the girl's father, who had given her the terrible alias. He, of course, was no help at all, and thought it was hilarious and clever and therefore it remained in use. It was even worse when the little girl started responding to it more quickly than her real name, which was Rebecca.

Rebecca Aloysia Finrandi, aged three, who just happened to have let her parents know early in life just what sort of bloodline she was heir to, by torch-electrocuting a field rodent when it had mortally frightened her on the back porch one quiet summer twilight. She'd been toddling around on the back porch, a picture of babyfaced perfection with a head of glossy black ringlets and her mother's bright, sky-blue eyes, wading around the shaded, ivy laden terrace in bare feet with her copper watering can. Cleo remembered, she'd just put down the baby when she heard the earsplitting scream from out the open double doorway. She'd barely spun around, her heart surging in her chest, when the dark figure of her husband was already flying past the doorway and skidding out to the terrace to mollify his wailing daughter.

Decklan, only a handful of months old at the time, had just finally allowed himself to be rocked to sleep and woke with an upsetting little jerk; already whimpering from the crib and squirming ominously. Cleo remembered scooping the tiny boy up before running out to the patio, where Rebecca's little sobs were muffled in her father's shoulder; the sun was about to set, gold light glistening in long nets across the stone pavers, where the remains of an enormous field rat lay in smoldering ruin, and Orphen couched beside it, looking down at the black smear with a mixed expression of arrogance and surprise while Rebecca sniveled herself dizzy as she was apt to do.

"What's going on out here?" she'd breathlessly rushed through the open double doors with her squirming son held against her bare shoulder, her heart beating cold in her throat, and Orphen had turned towards her after a minute, his eyes still cast downward at the smoking black lump that had once been a small, furry animal with a long tail.

Following his gaze, Cleo started at the sight, Decklan whimpered fussily, and she patted his tiny backside. She dropped her voice below the level of Rebecca's bawling. "What the hell is that?"

With a curious smirk, he finally looked up at her. "I think…it _was_ a rat," he said, then dipped his face into the cloud of black curls floating around his daughter's head and whispered to her for confirmation, "Becky, was it a big rat?"

She didn't lift her head, only nodded emphatically and gave a breathless sob to punctuate it. She could be terribly dramatic. Orphen had mentioned in passing she must have gotten that from her mother.

"I can see _that_!" she intoned dangerously, "I mean what _happened_ to it?! Did _you_ do this?"

He shook his head slowly, lifting his free hand that wasn't soothing the sniveling girl, and casually pointed up at his daughter.

"No!" Cleo breathed, torn between excitement and horror. "Not already!"

He was rubbing the girl's little back with an eyebrow raised at his blonde wife, asking her to save her comments until he actually had the freedom to reply. "Come on," he said cloyingly to Rebecca, "There's no reason to keep crying is there? It's gone, see? Becky, baby, how'd you get rid of it?"

It hadn't taken long to figure out that Rebecca already had discovered she could use magic. Not that she'd known what it was; just that she could. Orphen had taken her out back to find another random, overgrown beach rat, and come back into the house ten minutes later, using his miraculous prowess with the girl to talk her into taking a bath while he set about donning his cloak to go have a quick word with her favorite Uncle Majic at the Tower.

After putting Decklan down for the second time and settling her daughter in a foamy tub, she'd blocked him in the foyer with tears in her eyes. "Not already!" she repeated in a low rasp, low enough that Rebecca couldn't hear her in the bath where she was splashing happily with her rubber ponies and collection of seashells. "Orphen, _no_; she's only three!"

"She's too young, relax, they wouldn't even take her anyway."

"They took _you_!"

"I was _four_," he corrected calmly, glancing past her and into the hallway a moment to check if their daughter hadn't vacated the tub randomly, as she had been known to do, sneaking up on him in the office or patio naked and ornamented with white blobs of soap bubbles as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"You think you're awfully cute, don't you?" she hissed, planting her hands on her hips and giving him the fierce stare of a mother tiger, and he laughed at her, catching her around the waist and backing her casually against the foyer wall.

"I didn't have _parents_. I was an exception. And you know I have no intention of that, besides."

"Watch your hands there, buddy."

He flashed her an innocent smile, raising an eyebrow in just that little way he did. "See? You're not that worried."

"The hell. Orphen, what if she hurts herself?"

"She might. But she won't do it twice. Didn't you ever fall out of a tree or anything as a kid or did your Mom keep you under a bell jar?"

She glared. "I think I remember leaving home against her demands and following around some mean prick that nearly got me killed a few times."

"Oh yeah, that guy," he quipped acidly. "Wonder what ever happened to him?"

"I hear he ended up pussywhipped by some blonde."

His hands tightened on her, trapping her against the wall with his body. "Ouch. _That_ was nasty."

"Weren't you headed for the Tower?"

"Yes, but not to sign her over to them for chrissake, give me a little credit. Don't you think I ought to find out what's usually done at this point? You know _I_ don't have any idea, but seeing as she's already got electrical down without either of us knowing, it won't be long before _Rat's Bane_ in there is burning down the—"

"Don't call her _that_!"

"Oh come _on_, you don't think that's funny?" He'd grappled with her a little, even as she put extra effort into looking somber, trying to stand her ground as he went for her neck, his words lost in the long curtain of her hair and his hands resuming their indecent wandering. "Not even a little? Ratsbane? The adorable doom of all rodents?"

She was as easily and hopelessly charmed by him as ever, he knew that. Likewise, he had Rebecca wrapped around his little finger as thoroughly as her mother had been for what felt like forever. He knew she'd smiled, her anxiety relaxing even as she'd tried to turn her face way to hide it. And that's all it had taken.

From then on, it had stuck. That terrible nickname.

Drama of that medium-low caliber was somewhat typical in the Finrandi household. Things hadn't always been so idyllic. For years, before their eventual marriage, their relationship had been an undeniable firestorm at every phase of it for all their years living at the Tower during the war. From their lengthy, slow beginning to Orphen's phase of intense possessiveness when he'd threatened to kill her rather good-looking fencing instructor and just about anyone else who looked at her twice, their vicious-as-ever quarrelling, hard long days, sometimes weeks of not speaking to each other, and their eventual passionate, emotional reunions. Hartia constantly insisted that she deserved better; and if she knew Shrimp Man, his joking insinuations that he would make a much better choice weren't altogether entirely in humor, but she'd never mentioned it to Orphen. Despite that he'd gradually learned to be more secure in her loyalty to him, joking or no, she couldn't be sure what he would do to his longtime friend for such a suggestion.

They'd had their first earth shattering break-up about six months after her abduction by the Church, in the thick of the first summer of the war. While arguing about it with Hartia, she'd insisted desperately it was the end of their mercurial love affair, and to prove it, she'd kissed him. Kissed Hartia. God knew what Orphen would say, would do, if he ever knew that. It was only once, and she'd been goaded on by his insistence that she would never be anything but a slave to her heart's addiction to his temperamental, socially handicapped friend. No matter the reason, impulsive and ridiculous as it had been, she'd really done it to prove that lie to herself.

Unfortunately, it hadn't been quite as exciting as she'd thought: after growing so used to kissing Orphen, who was still able to suck the breath from her with just the right brush of his lips, kissing Hartia was like kissing the brother she didn't have. They'd laughed it off awkwardly, and Cleo, fighting an impolite urge to spit, had forlornly admitted to a slew of things she hadn't wanted to put into words, the least being that he was right. That no matter how terribly they fought, she'd belonged to the bastard utterly since long before they were actually together. That they didn't always get along, but when they did, it was so beautiful. That being apart from him was complete hell; but unavoidable, and probably for the best. And that no matter all of that, this was the end of it.

Though, obviously, it hadn't been the end of anything. It was later the same night that Orphen had knocked on her door in the dormitory wing of the Tower, demanding she speak with him. She'd opened the door briefly, despite the hour, only to find him propped irritably on her door frame, inebriated and hostile, and it had only taken a brief exchange before she'd slammed the door in his face and collapsed forward against it, clenching her teeth, fighting tears as always.

After a long minute of ringing, tear-slicked silence where she could still feel his presence leaning on the other side of the door, she heard his voice through the moisture swollen wood.

"Goddamnit Cleo. Why do you _do _this to me?"

"Why do _I_ do this? To you?!" she'd hissed back. "That's a good one. If you weren't such a self-obsessed prick and gave a fuck about anyone but yourself, I wouldn't have to answer that question. I should be asking you. Why do you do this to _me_?"

"I _do _give a fuck!"

"Yeah right. You've sure proven that. You don't believe a word I say. You don't trust me. And you don't care how it makes me feel when you accuse me of awful things just because _you're_—!"

"I care…I'm…_sorry_."

She didn't like how he'd choked that out. "No you're _not_."

He was silent a long time in response. For a moment, she thought he'd walked away before she heard his voice again. "Cleo…I don't want this." A long pause. Then, "_Please_…"

And she'd jerked open the door, quickly enough that he half-fell through it and had to catch himself on the doorsill, and she had to smile despite herself as he glared at her, unfocused as he was.

"Do you insist on fucking doing that?" he spat. He could slip from sweet to malevolent so quickly, it still sent her reeling. Often he couldn't even tell her she was beautiful without getting defensive afterward.

"Yes. I do. I insist. You'd think you'd have learned not to lean on the door like that."

She'd slammed the door once he was inside, launching into his arms and wrapping herself around him before he could even retort. Hartia was right. She was completely enslaved, and though he'd seemed a little shocked at first, he hadn't held out very long against her aggressive seduction as she led him in and pushed him onto his back on her bed, straddling his hips and undoing the buttons down his shirt, her teeth closing gently on his earlobe while she told him to just shut up. His mouth had tasted of gin, his skin fever hot under her hands, and the way he'd been so particularly responsive to her touch had spoken volumes of just how much he'd really missed her; just a slight needful twist of the spine into her as she kissed him, though she was sure the alcohol was to blame, or thank, for his openly telling her so, and that he really was sorry. That he loved her. And as they lay entangled that night, dewy with sweat and blissfully reunited, listening to the low rumble of the summer thunder underlying their quiet, breathless voices, she couldn't have asked for anything more from life.

Sadly, this sequence of anger, regret, and reunion had continued far too long, with just a little more urgency each time it repeated. Between pride and obstinacy and insecurity, there was no end to the innumerable ways in which they managed to wound each other and set that cycle spinning out of control. Their predictable repeating circuit had only truly slowed and died out, out of necessity, once they'd become aware Rebecca would be coming along to join their emotional circus.

Of course, it wasn't for another year after that humid summer night that she'd found out about the would-be surprise pregnancy, though clearly it had been bound to happen eventually, with Cleo returning less and less to Totokanta to continue her visits with the doctor for her mother's once-demanded inoculations against fertility. She'd never mentioned the shots to Orphen, though she knew he'd obviously wondered how it was possible they had dodged that particular bullet for as long as they had. It wasn't something they talked about. All it had taken was an accidental lapse in her treatments during another explosive break up and passionate reconciliation between them, and it had happened. She clearly recalled waking the morning afterward feeling peculiar; even curled up in his arms late that night, listening to him quietly sleep beside her, she'd felt something was somehow different. Something vague and incomprehensible like a shift in the direction of the wind or an increase in humidity.

But _telling_ him about it, once she was extremely, unquestionably certain of her condition, had not been an easy nor stressless task, and she'd put it off as long as was possible until she found herself confronted with the shattering news of Orphen's being sent back out to lead an assault on the Church-occupied Valley of Eugenia. Even up to the moment of saying goodbye to him, she hadn't said a word; and only the soul-destroying prospect of his not coming back and never knowing at all had forced her tongue out of its silence.

It hadn't been the most ideal setting for such news. Clinging to him in the grand hall, still dressed in her snug white fencing suit and surrounded by the bustle of hundreds of friends and couples and families saying their farewells, she'd whispered fiercely that no matter what, he had to come back. He just _had_ to, that's all.

Smoothing her hair with an anxious laugh, he'd assured her he hadn't been planning on not coming back. To not worry. And she'd started to tremble embarrassingly, repeating herself inanely that he had to come back; that they knew who he was by now and would be targeting him. And that it wasn't just for her that she asked this time.

He hadn't taken that bait exactly. Instead he'd asked if she was cold; why was she shaking like that? For being so clever, sometimes he was just so slow with these sorts of things. "What's that mean?" he'd said finally, as though he'd had to go back over what she'd said in her mind. "Who else?"

She'd pulled back, shaking furiously like a woman freezing to death despite that it was a sticky, overcast July morning and forcing her eyes up to his gravely, begging him to catch on so she didn't have to say it. Even though with the wary look he was giving her, she suspected he'd just wanted to hear it to solidify his sudden suspicions.

"The…baby…" That's all she'd gotten out. She didn't know what she expected from him at that point, but was all the same terrified. After all, he'd basically made a career out of being unpredictable.

After a few tense, tear-jerking moments of his expressionless stare, his arms tightened around her and his head dropped down next to hers in a kind of winded embrace, his nature of being rather subdued with displays of affection in public all at once abandoned.

"Oh god…" he'd breathed, plainly shaken. He hadn't even cursed. She was sort of surprised. But she couldn't stop shaking. It was a minute before he squeezed her. "Calm down."

"Hu-how can I calm down? You think I waited this long to tell you because I wanted to be _dramatic_?"

"How _long_ have you known?" his voice sounded weak, but that was to be expected.

"Three weeks."

"_Jesus_," he exhaled.

Though he kept her held tightly against him, he wasn't looking at her either. She wanted to say she hadn't let this happen intentionally. That she was more terrified than he could possibly be. But instead she went for a more simple approach, "Are you angry?"

"Angry? N…no…not angry…it's only…" he let out a quick breath, clearly struggling to translate his thoughts into words. "I'd just started to think that…we…couldn't…"

Whether that thought had been a good or bad one, she was unable or unwilling to discern. With her cheek against his shoulder, looking out over the vast hall, she could recognize a few of Orphen's students on the stairway. One girl had her boyfriend's teal bandana tied around her wrist, as was the trend started (presumably) by Cleo's trailing red sash, still tightly fastened in place even after so long. Strangely, it hadn't taken long for this to catch on once it had been noted by the student body that Finrandi's girl wore his old Tower headband as some type of promise ring. These days, you saw girls all over with different colored head sashes fastened around their wrists; flags of some sort of commitment. Which was funny, since Orphen had never intended it that way the day he'd tied it on her. She remembered watching them while Orphen finally spoke up, his words so soft they immediately demanded her attention.

"Okay," he'd said, a cautious note entering his voice of which she was instantly wary. "Just…for once, don't be contrary for the sake of being difficult."

"I have never, not even once, been contrary just for the sake of—"

"_Listen to me_. I expect you're going to do the right thing and marry me and not fight with me about it."

He'd said it in such a toneless rush it was hard to determine if he was really serious, and instead of processing the altogether staggering statement, her mouth went into overdrive. "Aren't _I_ supposed to be the one talking about doing the right thing?"

"But you're the rebellious one. Just ask your mother."

"_I'm_ the—?!" She'd tried to push off of him, but he held her in place as she struggled for the moment she had it in her. "You're just saying that to annoy me, aren't you?"

"Are you going to marry me or _not_?"

"Well, you're a romantic bastard, I'll give you that," she'd cracked sourly. "Did you actually want me to answer?"

He'd exhaled hard, his arms locked around her, the lines of his body taut with obvious anxiety and she wished she hadn't had to drop this on him before he'd left, just to reassure her conscience.

"_Yes_, I want you to goddamn _answer_."

She sighed, long and slow. "Okay."

"Okay." He paused, content for a second with their tentative understanding, then he added, "You realize this means you'll have to quit walking out on me."

"You realize this means you're going to have to stop being such a prick," she countered.

He hadn't replied to that, and they'd merely spent the next several minutes holding onto each other for dear life; silently terrified until Orphen's lieutenant commander, a familiar tall redhead with a pale spray of freckles and the same embarrassed look he usually was forced to greet them with. "I'm sorry, sir…I'm _always_ interrupting you two…"

"Tompkins…is it time already?"

The kid nodded sternly, gave an unnecessary salute and headed for the front doorways, where another familiar redhead was waiting for him in olive green robes. Hartia had been teaching the first and second year children then, and was helping with the war effort voluntarily, as most of the Tower staff was wont to do. The militia, as Orphen had predicted a year before, had shrunk considerably in size at the time; though those that remained had become more adept at battle through a lot of study, training and experimentation in the Tower Courtyard with their unorthodox Master hurling spells for them to reflect, block or dodge while they were trying to hit him just once.

Orphen gave her a last squeeze then caught her face to kiss her gently. When he drew away, with her shaking beginning to resume and her all too familiar expression, he kept his hand cupping her face and tilted his forehead against hers while she closed her eyes against gathering tears. "Don't cry," he instructed, as he always did when they sent him away.

And as she always did, she collected herself as much as she was capable, and nodded. "I'm trying."

Despite everything, she remembered how empty she'd felt as he'd leaned in to kiss her goodbye. "You don't have to do this," she'd whispered to him.

"There you go, being difficult again."

"I'm not being difficult. I just…if it's not what you want, you don't have to do it just because…because that's what you think you're supposed to do."

"Stupid," he'd whispered back, "Since when have I ever done anything just because I'm supposed to?"

And he'd kissed her once more, hanging onto her a moment longer than it felt like he normally would have, then headed for the front of the hall, where he'd stood beside Hartia a moment, running his left hand back through his dark hair; a nervous gesture of his that was easier to read than his own words a lot of the time. She watched for him to visibly steel himself as he was so flawlessly, though probably not effortlessly, able to do. It was just one of the reasons why Orphen had been a very difficult person to get close to, not only because of those walls he could call up around him in the blink of an eye, but because beyond those walls there were vicious thorns. Once he'd risen his unmistakable, authoritative voice with beginning instructions for the militia to translocate as a unit to a point just outside Eugenia, where a faction of the Imperial operatives were already waiting, she started back up the stairs, his words projecting not only all around her but flooding though her, echoing inside her skull.

The problem had been that he hadn't come back quite as smoothly as he'd promised. The clash that had raged in Eugenia the following days had been a veritable bloodbath, and for days the only soldiers who had returned from the battle had come back in pine boxes in the back of horse drawn hearses, and buried promptly in the Tower cemetery without any viewings whatsoever. There was talk that the entire militia had been destroyed, that the forces of Kimurak had backed them against a shallow valley and taken them down in an unrelenting spray of lead. There were frightened rumors fluttering around the student body that Finrandi was dead, that the war was lost, that the Church would be coming back to the Tower to finish what it had started, despite all the barriers. And Cleo had lain in bed at night, knees drawn up to her chest with her arms clutched tight around his pillow, assuring herself it was just a terrible lie. It was just such a night that she'd been lying awake that a knock came at the door, and when she'd answered, it was Majic with a relieved, quiet smile, telling her the militia had returned, and that Orphen was among them, alive and relatively unscathed. As he'd come home to her that night, she could feel tangible relief in his embrace; in the way they'd made love. She could feel how terrible the battle had been in just the way he kissed her; the lingering fear that he may not have come home according to the plan, as he'd so nonchalantly promised her.

It was only days later that they'd quietly eloped in Abanrama by the Sea, and her mother had gone into a conniption when she'd received her letter, only comforted with the knowledge that that good-for-nothing sorcerer had finally married her. She'd waited about a month before she'd written her again, with the other news about her being a grandmother, which had been received far more warmly and, shockingly, without any negative suspicions whatsoever.

The pregnancy itself went rather without incident, her only major complaint being that she'd had to give up her assistant instructor's position in fencing a few months in. After all of these years, her magical studies had not exactly taken off. She had an almost exclusive propensity for white spells, jobs involving matter that already existed in a solid form. She could lock and unlock doors, bring up simple barriers, repair objects. But when it came to combative spells, she fell utterly flat. Her specific energy just wasn't so inclined was what Orphen had told her one night, trying to ease her frustration to little avail. She'd protested that they wouldn't have even accepted her at the Tower if she hadn't been connected to him, and while he admitted it may have been true, that there was no way to know, and it didn't matter in any case. They were here now; and it was the safest place she could hope to be in her condition, with the bloody chaos only whipping itself into a frenzy beyond the fortress walls of the Tower of Kiba.

If anyone had asked him, which no one ever did, what had been the most petrifying day of the war, he would have told them it was the day his daughter was born. It had little to do with the Church itself, as they'd already been encroaching on Taflem for days before Cleo had gone into labor, though the doctor had explained the stress of the impending assault and intent of imposing attrition on the city had likely induced the event a few weeks before it was expected. It was early April, the ground still frosted outside and only beginning to thaw as the skeletons of Kimurak trebuchets rose foreign on the horizon of the bleak Taflem hillscape, and he'd plainly refused to go out to meet them head on in favor of waiting in the cold gray medical hallway, listening to Cleo screaming beyond the locked doors like she was dying and frightening him beyond belief.

He'd never told her about how they said his mother had died.

He never thought it was worth bringing up. No reason to frighten her. Instead, as he listened to Cleo's resounding shrieks of pain, that nightmare he'd kept in the back of his mind his entire life was coming alive behind a locked door they would not let him past. What Azalea had told him one day, or rather told Leticia in front of him, about how the sisters in the Orphanage at Laindast had said Krylancelo's mother had died in childbirth, bled to death right on the birthing table before they'd even cut the cord, it was something he wished she'd just kept to herself. He could have gone his whole life without knowing, would have even preferred to believe a lie or know nothing at all instead of being aware at a very young age that he'd basically killed his own mother. And how could he have ever turned out anything else but a murderer? He'd been _born_ one. Cleo still didn't want to hear anything about it, and instead, as she cried out into the April morning, he was sure she was bound to fall victim to his curse in which everyone's blood ended up on his hands eventually.

And now that he was so incontestably and admittedly in love with her, it was only typical he would be the reason for her death. Hers and maybe even the baby's. The truth was, from the moment she'd broken the news to him, it was the first thing on his mind, aside from the fits of angst he'd endured over the reality that he'd never had a father and would have no idea in the least how to be one himself. Already he had a reputation of being a rather ruthless teacher, he couldn't imagine what sort of awful father he was liable to make, with his intensely limited patience and predisposition toward severity, impulsiveness and insensitivity.

He'd sat out in that sterile hallway as they'd demanded, his head dropped miserably into his hands, trying to clench his muscles against their involuntary quaking while Majic blathered on about one thing or another from the chair beside his, just to keep the tension broken. To keep his Master from snapping, even though the boy, then nearly eighteen, looked ready to cry himself.

When the cries had fallen silent, he'd felt his sanity starting to precariously buckle the way it hadn't for years; his memories irrevocably returning to the long days of Cleo's imprisonment by the Kimurak Church when the stirrings of his attachment to her had completely bowled him over in her absence. And while he'd been on the verge of losing his mind, choking on his own thrashing heart, waiting in the bone-crushing silence that followed the screams, the door at the end of the hallway had finally opened and a nurse had emerged, her smock deceptively clean of the sprayed scarlet blood he'd been imagining, and calmly called his name without any grim faced doctor to tell him the horrifying news he'd all but expected.

Instead, they'd woven him into the room smiling, and he'd entered the unexpectedly bright room to find his wife (it was still a weird word to use for her, in his mind) alive and well, cleaned up but unmistakably pale and exhausted but somehow glowing, cradling a tiny swaddled infant with a shock of black hair and a perfect rosebud of little pink lips, unbelievably tiny fingers latched onto her skewed hospital gown; all of which was so utterly amazing that he couldn't have even dreamed it up properly if he'd tried. When she'd looked up at him, he had a flash of absurd fear that she wouldn't know who he was, or that it was all a delusion brought on by madness.

Instead, she smiled shakily and told him to come meet his little girl. He remembered feeling dizzy and sitting down beside the bed in a metal chair, impotently asking if she was alright; but he couldn't quite recall what her response had been. He only knew he'd eventually ended up with that tiny bundle in his arms, warily staring down into the little face in a sort of ringing whiplash that followed the terror and complete awe of the whole morning, a little overwhelmed while they discussed what to name her; something which they had not come to any decisions about whatsoever in the months of her pregnancy.

They'd settled rather easily on Rebecca, the name of a heroine in a story Cleo had loved as a young girl. Orphen, for once, hadn't put up a fight. _She'd_ carried her, given birth to her, after all, and the tiny girl was breathing and alive and had fingers and toes and everything she was supposed to; so the name didn't matter much so long as it wasn't anything that made him flinch. Luckily, she hadn't suggested anything of the sort. If she'd suggested Constance, just for example, he would have had to explain _why_ he couldn't call his daughter _that_ for the rest of his life. And at the time, he'd have just as soon avoided such topics.

Precocious, histrionic and lovely Rebecca Finrandi was less than a year old by the time the Church's aggressive efforts buckled under the weight of the growing Imperial onslaught. With its trained fighting force a dwindling and unrenewable resource, once their numbers had fallen to irreparable levels, and with their noble believers abandoning their faith in the Gods of the Giant's Continent as it was overshadowed by the deaths of their daughters and sons to accomplish increasingly impossible means, a fierce battle in the Fenril Wilderness had ended up as the final bout in the deteriorating war effort. The tide had turned permanently toward victory for the Federation, and those that remained of Kimurak's high-ranked were taken to St. Cantenosa, the island penal colony just off the Masmaturian coast, where they would await eventual trial. The Church itself was dissolved, and the city of Kimurak deeply occupied by the Imperialist army on a timeline of at least two decades. Throughout the conflict, the Ailmanka barrier had remained ever in tact, and despite having the ability, the fear of that ultimate unknown had kept the shards of the Worldstone so far kept in stronghold inside the Tower, to be returned to the University at Alenhaten once deemed entirely safe and appropriate.

Upon hearing the news of the Church's fall, Cleo had cried in open joy—the Federation had recognized Orphen into rather surprising notoriety, and the little Finrandi family had moved from their Tower apartment to a diminutive villa on the Elsinore seaside. It was small, all cream stucco and terracotta tile and covered in crawling holly, far to the east of Taflem on the rocky outskirts of Aoivanna province, away from the cramped hallways of the Tower and the frigid wind of Taflem. It was a place where Rebecca could run on the powdery white sand and watch the cobalt waves roll in from the front terrace; where Cleo could have her own kitchen (good _God_) and Orphen could find some semblance of freedom from a rather inconveniently growing fame; where he could turn his key in the lock and walk into a life he had built that had nothing to do with war or death or _revenge_. A place where the parts of his soul that were not irrevocably indentured to magic or murder could listen quietly to the slowly descending peace in his chaotic and sometimes still restless mind, settle in the arms of that firecracker blonde he still wanted to drown from time to time, and watch their tiny daughter grow into a running, tripping, mess-making, giggling little girl, who, considering her parentage, was certain to be complete terror. It was a luxury afforded by sacrifice and blood, and thanks to the Imperial Military's honors, at least Cleo's mother had nothing to complain about in her rather famous and unexpectedly well-off son-in-law; the great man who had had greatness forced down his throat.

That that he'd ever call her Mother. Or even Tistiny, if he could help it. The bitch. Even approaching thirty, Orphen was nothing if not a bit of a grudge-holder. Immature and unenlightened as it might have been. Whatever.

More happily, Rebecca's first word, cup, had debuted not long after their arrival at the house in Elsinore Heights. Not long after had followed the first garbled versions of 'love you!' that she'd parroted after her mother's example, and for Cleo, it had been almost painful to see the way Orphen had cuddled the girl after first hearing it giggled merrily to him—too blankly overcome for a minute to speak at all. He'd spent far too much of his life with no one to tell him that, and far too long denying he'd ever be able to feel what had come to him so naturally, like that innate spark of magic he'd been born with, when he'd become a father. Even so, he was still spare with that phrase. He didn't throw it around. But all the more, when he drew his wife to him in the dark and whispered it reverently into her hair, it just made it that much easier to believe him.

It had been almost ten years since Cleo had run blindly from the Everlasting estate in Totokanta with her father's sword lividly clutched in both hands, ready to take the head of a rough edged young man she'd mistakenly accused of being a peeping tom, and who had within minutes set her heart in an uncontrollable flutter that had yet to vanish. The years between had been eventful, full of strife and exploit, the rebuilding of a Republic, and Majic's eventual betrothal to the demure, blush-haired Eris meanwhile gaining some infamy of his own. When the two had first been together and come to the seaside for a visit, they'd be so sugary sweet and full of reserved, flushed eyelash batting that Orphen would exchange an occasional disgusted glance with his wife while they weren't watching, making note to ask her later if they'd ever been that completely stomach-turning. As a reply, Cleo had laughed, pinched his arm hard and reminded him he'd never been that wiltingly sweet to her, not even once; but that others had likely exchanged faces at each other in response to their still-at-times questionable behavior nonetheless. Later that night in their dark bedroom, with their guests asleep across the house in the extra room, he'd shown her just how _wiltingly_ sweet he could be, by holding her down and biting her while he made her gasp his name.

The one she called him, anyway. Just to remind her who it was she'd married.

With Ratsbane nearly five now and chattering and bubbling with her nerve-wracking, self-taught sorcery, it was of vital importance that she begin study soon, possibly in the coming months. Orphen would have none of the boarding school talk, wouldn't send her away for those long months at a time to be alone as he had been in that cold, austere place; even if it meant that their young son would not have the opportunity to spend more of his first years on the Aoivannan coast the way his sister had. Despite that it was so far from the Tower where Orphen still taught, and so far from her family and everyone else they knew, still, this quiet life in their sanctuary, their haven on the eastern outskirts of Kiesalhima, was a dream that would have to end one day. When that time came, they would return to Taflem with the children, in the snow and cold; in the mountains away from the crashing ocean and cattails, the morning rain and calling gulls and the white stretch of sand where the erstwhile Rebecca had sunk her first little footsteps into the damp beach, catching her chubby fingers around Cleo's with a gleeful, four-toothed grin at her victorious debut trek.

But that, all of that, was for the future. If there was one thing that had become clear over the years, it was that in this world, there was no chance. Only inevitability and fate, dressed up as random moments linking the each tick of the clock to the next; moments that run like beach sand through a baby's fingers. The children would grow up. Tides would shift. Ants would carry ten times their own weight. They would argue about ridiculous things. Revolutions would rise. The sun would move across the sky. The tossing ocean would wash their footsteps away, and they too would grow old.

Today just held mild uncertainty. How many more dawns would peek over the horizon at the house by the sea to find them, the magician and his fool, curled up together like a pair of cats?

Everything else was a question for tomorrow, whatever it would bring. Since it was, after all, _their_ life, there could be god-knew-what around the corner on a daily basis; and when had anything in their life ever been predictable?

Right, well. _Almost_ never.

**END**


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